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SIMPSON 






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SIMPSON 


BY 

ELINOR MORDAUNT 

M 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
(&i)t 0iber$De Cambridge 
1913 







COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


Published September iqi$ 



* 1 

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CL A 3 5 1 9 G 6 




DEDICATION 


To all Simpsons — whether spelt with a “p” or 
without — this book is dedicated : though they, and 
others, are warned of the fact that it deals almost 
entirely with love, so that those who feel no interest 
in this great passion, which still “rules the camp, the 
court, the grove,” are recommended to the study of 
Blue Books, or other printed matter of that descrip- 
tion. For myself I have always loved love: made a 
fine art of the practice of it : delighted to write of it. 
Thus, in dedicating this book to all Simpsons, I 
dedicate it most particularly to those who are, or 
study to become, lovers. 


Elinor Mordaunt. 






CONTENTS 


PART I 

I. Simpson adventures into the Open Country . 3 

II. Finds the Enchanted Land and falls under 

the Spell of Fountains 12 

III. Lilian Fane’s Most Persistent Endeavours are 

put to Nought by the Rising of a New Star ; and 
the Prospective Club gains a New Member . 27 

IV. The Lease of Fountains Court is obtained and 

the Plan of Campaign is agreed upon . . 42 

V. The Club is inaugurated — and invaded . . 52 

VI. Mr. Banks flutters his Wings for the Admira- 
tion of Mrs. Strang and her Two Daughters 68 

VII. Patience goes unrewarded, though Persistence 

. wins Much 80 

VIII. A Mystic and a New Member 88 

IX. Alarms and Excursions 101 

X. The First Club Dinner, to which Each Member' 
may invite One Female Guest, is pregnant with 
Results for the One Member whose Guest in- 
vites HERSELF 109 

XI. A Twentieth-Century Courtship during which 

the Millionaire’s Son is put through his Paces 127 

XII. Van Rennen arranges for his Own Banishment 

to Siberia 143 

vii 


CONTENTS 


XIII. Desmond makes his Peace, throwing over- 

board, without a Single Qualm, all the 
. Tenets of the Club 153 

XIV. Lady Van Rennen investigates the Affairs of 

the Kerkerod Company: and arranges for 
Another and a very Different Partnership 159 

PART II 

XV. Some Fruit of the First Dinner Party, by which 

Strang is torn with Many Diverse Passions 169 

XVI. Simpson acts as an Embassy to the Gipsies’ 
Camp; finding in himself an unexpected 
Affinity for Vagabondage 181 

XVII. Gilbert Strang flings his Black Bowler over 

the Windmill . . . .■ . . .199 

XVIII. The News of the Second Deserter reaches the 
Club, and Banks’s Young Love is temporarily 

NIPPED IN THE BUD 206 

XIX. A Gipsy in Villadom; and the Suffering conse- 

quent UPON FORCING SQUARE PEGS INTO ROUND 

Holes 214 

XX. A Soul in Prison, and a Small Life lost . 227 
XXL Desmond’s Book reaches a Triumph an? Ending 239 

XXII. And is followed by the Tragedy which treads 

on the Heels of Most Triumphs . . . 247 

XXIII. The Second Dinner Party: which ends in the 
Return of Two Travellers and the Depar- 
ture of a Third 263 

viii 


CONTENTS 


XXIV. Desmond’s Sweetheart starts Life afresh, 

TO THE VERY BEST OF HER ABILITIES . .282 

XXV. Simpson’s Rustic Peace is again broken . 288 

XXVI. Strang makes Some Efforts to play the Man 298 

XXVII. But it appears that his Wife has already 

taken Matters into her Own Hands . 306 

XXVIII. Banks receives yet Another, and Most Un- 
expected Check 312 

XXIX. Agar Finch forsakes the Club for what 

SEEM LIKE VERY INSUFFICIENT REASONS . 33 1 

XXX. Of a Fashionable Wedding and a True Mar- 

riage 338 

PART III 

XXXI. Lydia Strang takes her Fate into her Own 


Hands once more . 353 

XXXII. Banks is accepted with Moderate Enthu- 
siasm 360 

XXXIII. Parrifleet and the Lady of the Opal . . 368 

XXXIV. Fountains Court becomes Simpson’s Own 

Property 377 

XXXV. A Possession that renders him not alto- 
gether Free from Discontent . . . 390 

XXXVI. He meets his Former Landlady for the 

First Time 397 

XXXVII. And books a Most Important Engagement . 414 



SIMPSON 


PART I 




\ 




SIMPSON 


CHAPTER I 

SIMPSON ADVENTURES INTO THE OPEN COUNTRY 

‘‘Which way now?” enquired Simpson. For the 
moment the driver ceased to urge his horse for- 
ward ; it had stopped, and stood puffing, with an ex- 
aggerated air of exhaustion, its fore legs stuck straight 
out in front of it ; while the man had risen in his 
seat and was scanning the landscape ; his stubbly 
underlip — for it was Wednesday, and he was in 
the weekly meridian between a beard and a clean 
shave — protruding, his eyes screwed up into mere 
shadowy slits, devoid of intelligence, beneath their 
penthouse of bushy brows and dilapidated hat brim. 

At Simpson’s question he took off his hat, exam- 
ined it curiously, as though it belonged to some one 
else : wiped it out with his handkerchief : passed his 
sleeve across his brow, and scratched his head be- 
fore replying, with drawling deliberation : — 

“ Well, you see, it ’s this fashion. It may be tu th’ 
right, then again it may be tu th’ left: I’m danged 
if I don’t disremember. It ’s a powerful time since I 
corned along this way ; an’ there were n’t not no 
signposts in them days.” 


3 


SIMPSON 


“ But the signpost says nothing of Fountains Court,” 
put in Finch rather impatiently: “it says to Market 
Charlford and Long Ilkley.” 

“ But it sort o’ gets me muddled up, for all that,” 
replied the driver ; then replaced his headgear, knot- 
ted his reins to the rail of the splashboard with an 
air of finality, took out his pipe and began to fill 
it, ramming home the tobacco with a stubby fourth 
finger. 

“ If I could mind me whether Fountains be on the 
road to Long Ilkley, or on the road to Charlford, 
well, there we ’ud be. But I was n’t along there not 
more than once, at the burryin’ o’ the old lady ; an’ 
Mr. Thompson — that was Reannie’s steward — was 
that free-handed with the liquor — lashin’s an’ leav- 
in’s there was, better nor any wedding — that I don’t 
seem to have any clear recollection, so to speak, o’ 
which way’s which. It seems to me, if I might make 
so bold, that, seein’ as that things be as they be, the 
best plan ’ud be for you gentlemen to bide along 
here quietly till some ’un comes by as we can ask 
the way of. Better nor stavangering off, the Lord 
only knows where, up an’ down them there danged 
hills.” 

“ Seems to me as if we might wait till doomsday.” 
Finch flung himself impatiently to his feet, a slim, 
nervous figure in his grey flannel suit ; and turning 
round, stood with one foot on the seat of the ancient 
victoria. “Two Paradises were as one to dwell in 
Paradise alone,” he quoted. “And barring your 
4 


INTO THE OPEN COUNTRY 


august presence, Simpson, and that old reprobate 
on the box, it seems as if that ’s what is likely to 
happen. Did you ever see such slumberous, sleek 
beauty, and such solitude? All within thirty miles 
of London, too. I wonder who on earth ever treads 
the flowery way to Long Ilkley and Market Charl- 
ford, or are they mere figments of the imagination ! 
But, by Jove, what colour! Did you ever see any- 
thing like that pinkish haze, where the trees are just 
coming into leaf, as though spring had touched them 
with rose-tipped fingers; and the breath of green 
across the larches. ‘Trees, hills and dales’ — but, 
hang it all, not so much as a chimney. And, ’pon 
my soul, I believe that present solitude, and the 
memory of past beers, have lulled our Jehu to sleep. 
Now, what are we to do? I’d sit here with all the 
joy in the world and make a sketch if I had my 
things with me; but I haven’t — and meanwhile 
there’s Fountains Court. Have n’t you anything to 
suggest ? — George ! ’ ’ 

The name came with a vehement burst of im- 
patience. 

Very deliberately Simpson inserted two fingers in 
the pocket of the tan waistcoat which lay in such a 
calm and un wrinkled expanse across his broad person, 
and took out half a sovereign. 

“Tails to the right, and heads to the left,” he said. 
Tossed, caught the coin, and opened his hand. 

“ Heads — the road to Long Ilkley.” He rose 
leisurely, and slipped out of his light overcoat. 
5 


SIMPSON 


“ Come, Agar, we ’ll walk a mile or two anyhow, 
and see what happens.” 

“ Leave the sleeping beauty to be overgrown with 
brambles and briars — right you are. Adios, Bacchus- 
cum-Morpheus.” And he jumped out of the car- 
riage, while Simpson leant forward and touched the 
driver on the arm. 

“ You ’ll wait till we come back,” he said, speaking 
very slowly and distinctly, as though to a child ; then 
joined his companion, who had already started off 
down the deep-rutted lane which called itself the road 
to Long Ilkley. 

The air was of an exquisite freshness and purity. 
The sky true spring blue ; flecked with white clouds 
among which the wind rioted ; so engrossed in its 
pastime that it left all else, save the very tops of the 
trees, unstirred. 

Either side of the road were high banks, rank with 
the neutral-tinted grass of a past season ; shot through 
and through with the brilliant green of a new growth : 
the glossy arrow-heads of lords-and-ladies ; red and 
brown fungi ; masses of wild hellebore ; the vivid 
lances of oncoming bluebells ; and here and there — 
where the red-brown soil had broken away leaving 
a comparatively clear space above a disintegrated 
mass of roots — a tiny milkwhite flower against a 
background of clear, pale green, trefoil-like leaves. 

“ Pretty stuff that,” remarked Finch, pointing with 
his stick. “ Something like what we expect our first 
loves to be, and never find them. Something like 
6 


INTO THE OPEN COUNTRY 


Shelley, ‘all exquisite,’ don’t you know. I’d like to 
paint a Virgin crowned with them, throned on a car- 
pet of them ; and, oddly enough, against an Italian 
background, an emblem of my sophisticated self, 
breaking through my poetic fancies. But, by Jove, 
things of that sort make a fellow feel like saying his 
prayers.” 

“Wood-sorrel,” remarked Simpson placidly, and 
moved on ; a stolid figure in his rather new tweeds, 
over which the aura of a black frock coat and top 
hat still seemed to hang. 

Again Finch stared for a moment ; then laughed : 
“’Pon my soul, George, you’re the most unex- 
pected person I ever met. I enthuse about the stuff, 
but it might be a mangel-wurzel bloom for all I 
know ; and out you come, pat, with wood-sorrel. It ’s 
uncanny to find a person immersed in the ways of 
bulls and bears, trekking off in such an unexpected 
fashion — you might be a reincarnation of Sylva- 
nius himself.” And he glanced rather patronisingly, 
though with evident affection, at the unemotional 
figure of his friend. 

The satire, though kindly enough, was obvious. 
Nothing could have been further removed from the 
popular ideal of the swart, lichen-crusted god of 
woods and forests than the prosperous stock-broker ; 
already a little inclined to put on flesh — which ac- 
counted for the smooth perfection of his waistcoat ; 
more than inclined to baldness, as was shown when 
he removed his hat and carried it in his hand ; with 
7 


SIMPSON 


a square chin, and heavy jaw, whose Georgian out- 
line was discounted by a certain austerity of the firm, 
straight mouth, and brilliancy of the rather small 
blue eyes, which were the one arresting feature of 
Simpson’s face. 

For the rest he had topped forty; had, so far, es- 
caped matrimony by a protective instinct for perfec- 
tion ; cherishing beneath his matter-of-fact exterior 
an idealism which preferred loneliness to disillusion : 
the delicate perceptions of a young girl, combined 
with the shrewd good sense of a successful man of 
business. 

They had reached the top of the hill by now; 
Simpson moving steadily forward ; his companion 
veering from side to side of the road like a foraging 
dog — in search of new treasures, and peeps of land- 
scape ; climbing the banks, and focusing each fresh 
view from beneath his arched hands. 

For a while the road ran level ; then dipped sud- 
denly. And there beneath them lay a village ; a med- 
ley of red and grey roofs as tightly packed round 
the squat, square-towered church as a rustic posy; 
fringed with leafless elms, purple with buds ; over- 
hung by a cloud of cawing rooks and a mist of blue 
smoke ; the pervading pastel-tints relieved only by 
the fluttering lines of washing which form an integral 
part of such a landscape. 

“ We can ask here,” said Simpson. 

“ And, pray the Lord, get something to drink,” 
added Finch piously: straight on the road at the 
8 


INTO THE OPEN COUNTRY 


very thought, his fine, lean profile nosing forward like 
that of a greyhound. 

The village proved itself as Long Ilkley. And in 
the very middle of it, alongside the stocks, a brave 
new signpost took up the legend afresh — “ To Little 
Ilkley.” 

“ How many more Ilkleys ? ” queried Finch. “ A 
curiously uninspiring name ; anyhow, here’s a pub.” 
And he turned in beneath the swinging Red Lion, 
with Simpson at his heels. 

Over the beer and bread and cheese, they bored a 
slow trickle of information out of their host. Foun- 
tains Court was not “ more nor half a mile, or maybe 
a mile — happen two.” But there was a stile in the 
village itself, from which a short cut ran across the 
fields and through a hanger ; intersecting the drive 
halfway, and saving the long walk round by the lodge. 

“ But the missus bain’t not there,” he added ; and 
glanced at them curiously out of his moist little 
eyes. 

“ I know that,” responded Simpson rather curtly. 

But once started, the man’s expression of slow 
thoughts was as difficult to stop as a leaky tap. 

“ Ain’t been there, not nothing ter speak of, since 
the master died. No company, no nothing. I don’t 
hold with such ways; the gentry has a duty ’wards 
the like o’ we, the same as we ’ave a duty ’wards 
them ; and it ain’t not good for trade, neither. But 
there you are ; these be queer stavangering days for 
womenfolk, there ain’t no mistake about that, what 
9 


SIMPSON 


with breaking windows, an’ what not. An’ not a 
foot of weeds to ’er, the very first Sunday as she 
come ter church arter the burry in’ : just a bit o’ a 
black veil to ’er chin. Weeds ain’t what they was in 
my young days, nor widows neither, nor wives neither. 
Such goin’s on there ain’t not knowing t’other from 
which. ‘A widow?’ says I, askin’ Mr. Thompson, as 
was the Reannies’ butler, concerning a young madame 
as was staying at Fountains, six years back. 4 A widow 
o’ sorts,’ says ’ee : ‘ though I ’m danged if I know 
whether it be grass or sod.’ 4 Grass or sod,’ ’ee says, 
says ’ee. A rare ’un for ’is joke was Mr. Thompson. 
4 Grass or sod ’ ! That ’s a good ’un — 4 grass or 
sod ’ ! ” And the man smote his thigh, in apprecia- 
tion of Mr. Thompson’s oft-repeated witticism. 44 A 
good ’un that, a danged good ’un.” 

44 We must be going.” Simpson threw a half- 
crown on the table and nodded to the rosy-faced 
maid who had served them. 

The innkeeper, roused from his trance of joyful 
memories, followed them to the door. 44 Maybe 
you ’d like a boy to go along with you to show you 
the way,” he suggested. 

44 No.” 

44 Maybe you thinkin’ o’ takin’ Fountains Court. 
Me an’ my ferther afore me, we served the house- 
keeper’s room and ’all with beer for nigh on fifty 
years past; if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, sir; 
no offence meant, and none taken.” 

44 That’s all right,” said Simpson vaguely, and 
io 


INTO THE OPEN COUNTRY 


moved on after Finch; while the proprietor of the 
Red Lion followed him with meditative eyes. 

“ A furriner, a danged furriner ; ” and he spat to 
show his contempt. “A furriner from Lunnon.” 

“ A foreigner’s a chap as comes from France or 
India or such like,” remarked the girl, who was fresh 
from a board school. 

“ Argufying with me — argufying with me, are 
you ? ” The innkeeper turned, and regarded her 
with cold scorn. “You as ain’t never been further 
than Little Ilkley since you was hatched. Did you 
ever see a native of these ’ere parts as ever wore 
his leggins splayed out over his feet that fashion ? 
You tell me now. I ’ve travelled a fairish bit in my 
time, an’ I know what I know; an’ if I says a thing, 
that’s enough. Now just you get them there dirty 
crocks out o’ the way, and don’t you waste your 
time argufying with yer betters. An’ mind me ! The 
next time I catch you winkin’ at any o’ my cus- 
tomers when I ’m tellin’ ’em a story, I ’ll clout yer 
’ead for you.” 

“ I did n’t wink.” The crimson of the girl’s cheeks 
flooded into her neck and down over her bare arms. 

“ Well, yer did ; ’cause I saw yer in the glass my- 
self, an’ what I sees I sees! It wur only ter that 
there long chap, an’ ’ee didn’t pay; so ’ee don’t 
count, or else I ’d give yer what for, let me tell yer 
that, my girl. Winking at a male man, an’ givin’ 
me the lie ter my face when I talks of furriners! 
You ’ll be wantin’ the vote next — you , by gummy!” 


CHAPTER II 


SIMPSON FINDS THE ENCHANTED LAND AND FALLS 
UNDER THE SPELL OF FOUNTAINS 

The stile, and path, well worn to the width of two 
by Sunday sweethearts, was easy enough to find and 
follow: meandering leisurely along through undu- 
lating green fields — whose whole trend lay down- 
wards — till they ended in a dry ditch and bank, 
starred with celandines, where it crossed an arching 
grass-grown bridge, crept under another stile, and 
led into a long narrow coppice; when, turning at 
right angles, it continued its way along the hollow; 
pointing off, at length, in a deep cleft between two 
broad sweeps of park land. 

Climbing up out of this, in a straggling fashion 
— for the path had disappeared, and Finch was 
bearing to the high ground westward, in search of 
prospective sketches, while Simpson pressed on 
steadily due north — the two men caught sight of a 
winding riband of drive, accommodating itself to 
the far older trees ; and beyond that a dense mass 
of evergreens, topped by a shimmer of foliage ; from 
above which rose a wavering column of blue smoke. 

“ There ’s the drive,” said Simpson, and would 
have made for it, had not Finch laid a detaining 
hand upon his arm. 


12 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 

“ Hang the drive ! Let ’s get into the place from 
the side : surprise it asleep. There ’s a sort of half- 
hearted path, and I bet there ’s a gate, or a hole, or 
something. Come on, Simpson.” And he was off, 
swinging along whistling ; while the other man, after 
a moment’s hesitation, followed his lead. 

At first their way was deceptively easy ; the 
thicket merging into a half shrubbery, half wood- 
land, of scattered trees and undergrowth, at the far 
side of a stone wall, bolstered up with ivy and sap- 
lings till it had grown to be almost a hedge, though 
easy enough to negotiate. 

But soon the place began to thicken. There was 
a rank undergrowth of wild hellebore and nettles; 
impassable laurels, and yews — things that bent back, 
then snapped viciously forward against their faces, 
beyond which they could scarcely see a yard — holly 
bushes, arbutus, and laurustinus. 

Finch was the best off. Somehow he slid past it 
all. But Simpson, furiously annoyed and stolidly 
persistent, pounded through it. 

“ You ’re a damned fool, Finch ! ” he panted in 
gasps : “ you artist chaps — always up to some damn 
fool tricks ! If you let any more of those confounded 
things fly back in my face I ’ll — ” 

“ Eureka ! ” Utterly regardless of the half-uttered 
threat, Finch had darted ahead ; “ An open place at 
last ; we ’re through the worst of it. Oh, hang ! ” 

“ What the devil is it now ? ” The elder man was 
struggling with a fine growth of brambles, in painful 
13 


SIMPSON 


proximity to an overhanging barberry. “ It can’t be 
worse than this,” he went on morosely. “ Of all the 
fool games. Well, and now may I ask what you 
propose to do ? ” 

He had broken free at last, to the detriment of his 
shiny brown gaiters, and stood by Finch’s side, sur- 
veying that which had brought even him to a pause : 
a wide, deep-sunk fence topped by more laurels. 

“ One could jump. If only there was room to take 
off — ” demurred Finch. 

“If!” 

“ I — suppose we ’d better turn back.” 

“ Back ! through that? No, thank you, my friend ! ” 
And moving a step forward Simpson began to clamber 
down the steep, slippery bank. 

“ Look here, old fellow, you can’t climb that thing,” 
protested Finch, half hysterical with amusement. 
“You’re not — well, not that sort of figure, you 
know.” 

Simpson, deep in the hollow, lifted a crimson and 
outraged face. “ Go to hell ! ” he said, stuck his fin- 
gers into a fissure in the ten-foot wall, and groped 
for a foothold ; got it and swept his brown boot des- 
perately round in search of another — while all the 
blood in his body seemed to gather to his finger- 
tips ; caught his toe in a crack — the merest crack, 
which needed a sharp kick before it would yield him 
sanctuary ; found another, and then another — with 
agonizing intervals — clung with one boot waving 
wildly in mid air; then at last, only one moment 
14 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 

later than Finch, wriggled onto the strip of green 
turf at the top, where he lay for a space, breathing 
heavily. Then he rose and pushed his way, with a 
sort of desperation, right into the midst of a thick 
belt of laurels ; pressed forward for a few steps ; and 
once more broke into the open with a long-drawn 
“Oh!” 

“I say, I hope — ” Finch crashed through behind 
him; half apologetic, choking with laughter; then 
paused at his companion’s side. 

“ By Jove, that ’s good ! ” he said, his head on one 
side, his eyes half closed to focus the scene before 
him. 

For “Fountains Court” lay just beneath them. 
Finch had been right ; they had caught her dream- 
ing in the afternoon sunshine. Just breathing, as 
that one plume of smoke testified ; infinitely peace- 
ful, as though folded in a pleasant haze of memories. 

It was a three-storeyed grey house, built in the 
shape of a hollow square, with abbreviated ends, of 
which each terminated in an eight-sided bay ; the 
clustering chimneys also octagonal in shape, and 
curiously carved ; the windows stone-mullioned ; the 
pointed roof covered with stone tiles, all gold and 
green with lichen ; while, in the very centre, flanked 
by long windows, was a wide arched porch and open 
door. 

Evidently they had approached the house on the 
wrong side, for there was no sign of a drive : only 
a wide border, a narrow terrace; and below that a 
15 


SIMPSON 


straight flagged path; bordered by a prim garden 
with more flagged paths, — arranged in geometrical 
order round a grey sundial, — the interstices of which 
formed triangular flower-beds, gleaming in silvery 
grey foliage and punctuated by dark, primly cut 
dwarf yews and box bushes. 

Below this, again, stretched an undulating lawn, 
dotted with trees deep in moss, roughening almost 
to pasture land where it joined the shrubbery; the 
whole ablaze with crocuses and pierced with the 
grey spikes of coming daffodils. 

To the east of this lawn, there was a thickening of 
trees, and a glimpse of outbuildings which might 
have been stables. To the west a square walled gar- 
den, running out almost to the edge of the shrub- 
bery. 

Towards this Simpson made his way. “ I ’ll be 
hanged if I ’ll cross that lawn, in full sight of all 
those windows,” he declared ; found a narrow path, 
pressed between the laurels and high grey wall, and 
followed it till he reached an arched doorway ; pushed 
it open, and found himself in a maze of closely cut 
grass paths, bordered by pleached fruit trees, along 
which he moved, with a curious feeling as if he 
was reading a book, every word of which he knew 
by heart: going over some inevitable and oft-re- 
peated plan of action ; till he reached a round pond, 
surrounded by stone coping on which crouched a 
small boy, who, apparently conscious of wrongdoing, 
sprang to his feet the moment the two men ap- 
16 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 


peared ; ran to the side of the garden ; doubled as 
they advanced ; hung for a moment, — with head 
thrust forward, and light eyes furtive as those of 
some small wild animal, — darted forward, and bolted 
out of the door by which they had entered. 

“ Poaching ! ” remarked Simpson dryly ; advanced 
towards the pond, and lifting a palpitating gold-fish 
which lay upon the bank, dropped it back into its 
native element. 

“ I wonder why he bolted past us like that, instead 
of out at that door.” And Finch jerked his head 
towards the opposite side of the garden. 

“Leads to the house. There ’re people there, you 
know ; ‘ MacCracken and MacCracken ’ told me : a 
housekeeper and gardener fellow.” Simpson was sur- 
veying himself pensively in the water as he spoke. 
“ I say, I can’t go up to the house in this condition. 
No responsible person would trust me inside the 
door. Hang it all, if I know how you managed to 
wriggle through and keep as clean as that.” And he 
gazed at his friend almost reproachfully. 

“ Oh, you ’re all right ; only for the front of your 
waistcoat, where it reached the wall first,” grinned 
Finch maliciously: “if you will understudy for a City 
Alderman, you know ! But hold on a minute, while I 
brush you down ; and there ’s a smudge of black on 
your nose from those beastly yews. There you are. 
Now, come along. Odd, I suppose this is as English 
as anything can be ; but one could sketch it to look 
pure Japanese, with all these plums in bloom, and 
1 7 


SIMPSON 


those pale iris, and grey, velvety-leafed things. It ’s 
all herbs, do you see, and seedlings, and violet-beds ; 
no beastly cabbages or anything of that sort ; — ‘A 
garden is a winsome place, God wot.’ ” 

“ I shan’t take the place unless it ’s got a decent 
vegetable garden,” declared Simpson ; half ashamed 
of the spell Fountains had already cast upon him; 
fighting against the inevitable knowledge that he 
would take it, even if it were destitute of every ne- 
cessity of civilization. For already it seemed his : 
quite inevitably his. He had come home. And, how- 
ever much certain detached things might be wrong 
about it, the whole was right : part of himself. 

With that almost uncanny perception which his 
artistic nature gave him, Finch realised this and 
laughed. 

“That ’s all bunkum. You ’re in love! If ever I saw 
a man in love for the first time, it ’s you, my dear 
George. And you ’ve got it badly, as we all do when 
we are past our first youth. You come here to escape 
from woman and all her works and fall in love with 
a place — an atmosphere, a temple of romance ; grey 
walls and a garden : will wed the whole caboodle, as 
a nun weds Heaven.” 

“ They don’t,” protested Simpson feebly. 

“Well, they ought to, then. By Jove, how good 
it all smells, and what peace ! I wonder if it would 
end by making one do all sorts of things that one 
oughtn’t — run away with one’s neighbor’s wife, for 
instance.” 


18 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 

“ The house does n’t look up to much. Those gable 
things with three open sides ’ud be devilish cold in 
winter,” said Simpson ; arguing against his own feel- 
ings with the persistence of an obstinate child. Then 
he opened the door in the wall, opposite to that 
through which they entered ; and, followed by Finch, 
wound his way among the flagged paths towards 
the front of the house ; mounted the wide flight of 
shallow steps to the terrace, and became aware, for 
the first time, that a stout, elderly woman stood in 
the porch ; staring at them, with one hand shading 
her eyes from the sun. 

“ Incarnate romance. Now, then, my gallant knight, 
forward and at her,” laughed Finch ; while Simpson 
— acutely conscious of his scratched and smeared 
condition, and their unconventional approach to the 
house — advanced towards the woman, who stood 
solidly at guard, with something of the aspect of a 
broadened and mature Minerva. An emblem of the 
old regime ; too immensely superior even to show 
scorn of the new. 

“ Good afternoon,” he said. “ My name ’s Simpson. 
I come from Messrs. MacCracken and MacCracken ; 
perhaps you have heard from them.” 

“ I heard that there was a gentleman likely to be 
coming about renting the place,” she remarked stol- 
idly, with a calmly appraising eye on both the men ; 
her hands folded in front of her, making no attempt 
to move ; till Simpson, feeling childishly small, pro- 
duced the agents’ card ; when she moved a little on 

19 


SIMPSON 


one side, with a dignified obeisance, something be- 
tween a royal bow and a cottager’s curtsy. 

“ If you will please to come in, I will take you 
round the house ; and then my husband will show 
you the stables and the policy. I’m expecting him 
home every minute. You must excuse my bringing 
you in this way : but the entrance, as you may know, 
is at the opposite side. This is only what we call the 
small hall ; and don’t do the place justice. This way, 
please ; — and this is the drawing-room.” 

She flung open the door to the left as she spoke; then 
stood back, while Simpson and his companion entered. 

The room was like a faded blonde beauty, who has 
outlived youth, and yet cannot bring herself to settle 
down to a comfortable old age. The walls were pan- 
elled in white, and painted — indifferently well — with 
meaningless cherubs and roses ; the hangings were 
of old rose, the furniture French, of no very special 
date ; the whole effect curiously depressing ; while the 
very portraits on the walls, mostly pastels, — too old 
for freshness, too new for mellowness, — simpered 
down at them with an air of sickly vacuity. 

For a moment or so the housekeeper hesitated, 
expectant of the praise that did not come ; then moved 
to a door at the end of the room ; opened it, entering 
first, and pulled up the blinds, letting in a blaze of 
sunshine. 

‘‘This was Mrs. Reannie’s boudoir,” she said. 
“They didn’t use the drawing-room much, except 
there was company.” 


20 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 


“ By Jove, what a ripping room ! ” exclaimed Finch, 
while Simpson moved forward with a sudden warm 
sense of stepping into life. 

It was one of the wing rooms, long and narrow ; 
one entire end engrossed by the great window, 
hung in dull blue, and with a low seat, heaped with 
cushions in several shades of the same colour. 

The walls were panelled in dark oak, and fitted, 
to the height of a man’s shoulder, with book-shelves. 
The carpet was a deep indigo, several shades deeper 
than the curtains. But the chief charm of the room lay 
in the emptiness, the sense of space. For, apart from 
the books, there was little in it beyond a wide writing- 
table; two small, solidly carved Italian tables; two 
high-backed chairs covered in stamped brown-and- 
gold leather, which stood either side of the fireplace ; 
and several deep arm-chairs, with loose damask cov- 
ers of faded blues and blacks, showing an occasional 
touch of that wonderful pink which Perugini loved to 
paint : while above the high narrow mantel-shelf, set 
deep in the panelling, was the only picture in the 
room : a Virgin and Child, with a dark, curly-headed 
John the Baptist ; the whole — in its blues and pinks 
and dull gold — focusing and gathering to itself, as 
it were, the entire colour of the room. 

But yet, for all its charm, there was something 
missing : the only addition to which, as some instinct 
told Simpson, the room was accustomed ; which would 
leave its peace and quiet dignity untouched, — for by 
no stretch of imagination could he envisage useless 
21 


SIMPSON 


ornament, or framed photographs ; — and this was 
flowers. Flowers everywhere and a woman’s pres- 
ence : not a mob of women with a tinkle of teacups, 
such as he hated. But just one woman, as there was 
one picture. 

Even the housekeeper seemed to realize a certain 
blank : something wanting. “ There ’s brocade under- 
neath,” she said ; and lifting the corner of a loose 
cover, showed majenta damask, at the sight of which 
Finch drew his breath in a sharp hiss. “ It seems a 
queer sort of room for a lady,” she went on half 
apologetically : “ but it looked better when the mis- 
tress had her flowers and such-like about. Now if 
you will follow me, gentlemen.” 

Once more she led the way through the regret- 
fully decorous drawing-room — “Reminds me of 
those sort of women who are horribly aware that 
they ’ve done right at the sacrifice of everything 
which makes life worth living ; and hate everybody 
else in consequence,” whispered Finch. 

“ Have never wanted to do anything very much, 
you mean. It ’s the very essence of negation,” re- 
turned Simpson ; and followed the housekeeper 
across the hall into another room, with a long mas- 
sive table of Spanish chestnut and high-backed 
chairs, where more portraits, oils this time and of 
quite another calibre, — after a while Simpson grew to 
realise the little-used drawing-room as a mausoleum 
of feeble personalities and futile art, — looked down 
at them from the panelled walls: a lady in white 
22 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 

satin dress and floating blue scarf, with full, passion- 
ate lips, who might have been by Lely ; grave-faced 
men in satin coats or armour; a young ensign in 
tight scarlet tunic, huge epaulets and shako ; a fair 
girl with ringlets, the lap of her low-necked, white 
muslin dress filled with flowers ; a stately turbaned 
beauty, stepping down a flight of terrace steps, which 
might have been those in the garden outside, a study 
of a woman’s back, and beautiful neck, a few dark 
curls and the curve of a cheek, — all in creamy white 
and umbers, — half turning as though looking back 
at the upper windows of the house : the only light in 
the picture caught on the upturned chin and broad 
forehead beneath its mist of curls ; and next to this a 
gallant boy with a pony ; a judge in his robes ; and 
yet others. 

“The family,” explained the housekeeper in a 
hushed tone, — afterwards Finch declared that she 
bent her knee at the word, — hesitated a moment or 
so in reverent silence ; then opened a door at the 
farther end and ushered them into another room, 
corresponding to the boudoir; lined, up to within 
three feet of the ceiling, with books ; with a wide- 
open fireplace and stone mantelpiece ornamented 
by carved coats of arms ; deep, well-worn, leather- 
covered chairs, and two writing-tables. 

“This is jolly, too ! Pity it’s the wrong light for a 
studio,” commented Finch. “I say, Simpson, one 
might go farther and fare worse. It seems the very 
place we want — if I can only get hold of a room 

23 


SIMPSON 


with a north light. Plenty of space to getaway from the 
other chaps ; not to be everlastingly tumbling over 
each other,” he went on, lounging round the room, 
with his hands in his pockets, peering at the books. 

“ Backing this there are the kitchens : and oppo- 
site them the billiard room : either side of the en- 
trance hall, that is to say, where — ” Here she stopped 
as if uncertain how to go on — by what means to 
gain the information she desired : satisfy, without 
loss of dignity, the curiosity which had obsessed her 
ever since their arrival. 

Finch had come to a pause at the coat of arms above 
the mantelpiece, and was examining it critically, 
whistling softly, his long, loose figure bent forward ; 
while Simpson stood at the window looking out at 
the prim old garden and the clump of budding chest- 
nuts which bordered it at one side. 

“ It ’s too big altogether, too much of a place. And 
un-get-atable, ,, he said. 

At these words the housekeeper’s swelling curi- 
osity burst. “ That ’s what beats me ! ” she exclaimed : 
— “ how in the name of gracious goodness you did 
get here ! ” 

With a laugh Finch turned, and swung backwards 
and forwards on his heels surveying her. 

“ At last ! I was wondering how long you ’d take 
to ask that. What a relief to find you as human as 
the rest of us. Nay, more, all woman.” And he smiled 
ingratiatingly. 

“ But — ” 


24 


THE ENCHANTED LAND 

“ ‘ But me no buts.’ We came in an aeroplane, if 
you must know. Dropped straight from the clouds 
to the walled garden. And now — now we ’re here 
we mean to stay, till a pantechnicon from Paradise 
removes us ; lease the place to the crack o’ doom : 
when all the dead Reannies rise and turn us out. 
Odd ! that ’s what politicians are trying to do now : 
split up the properties, forestall the last day.” 

“ You ’re talking nonsense, Finch,” put in Simp- 
son. “ I have n’t the faintest intention — ” he began 
again: and then stopped. For the library window 
was open, and through it came a sudden whiff of 
perfume from a magnolia, already covered with 
creamy, cup-like blooms, which grew close against 
it ; while at the same moment, pat as a song to a 
tune, there broke forth the shrill rapture of a black- 
bird’s song, overflowing with the joy of a love and 
life which starts afresh each spring. 

“ Besides, the lease only runs for seven years,” he 
went on, lamely enough ; with a returning sense of 
the inevitability of it all. “ And anyhow, it ’s impos- 
sible to settle anything now.” 

But, regardless of what he said, Finch, finger on 
lip, had leant forwards toward the housekeeper, who, 
like all women, was already warming towards him. 

“ Do you want to know how we really and truly 
came?” he said in a mysterious stage-whisper. 
“ Don’t tell. Never, on your honour, let him know 
you know. We broke in — wriggled through the 
shrubbery, crawled up the sunk fence. Look at his 
25 


SIMPSON 


wai — no, on second thought, I’ll not give him 
away. It would n’t be honourable ; not the sort of 
thing a Reannie would do, would it, eh?” 

“ Don’t be an ass, Finch. And now Mrs. — 
Mrs.—” 

“ Bliss is my name, sir.” 

“ Tch — to think that I ’ve split the combine — is 
that what you call it, Simpson? Before you knew — 
guessed how we came — it was ignorance and — ” 

“We’ll see the rest of the house, and stables,” 
went on Simpson, calmly ignoring Finch’s feeble 
joke. “ We ’ve not got too much time. I want to 
catch the five-twenty to town.” 

“ But sure to goodness you never walked all that 
way from the station, sir. Bliss shall put a horse in 
the trap an’ drive — ” 

“ No, we didn’t walk.” Suddenly the thought of 
the forgotten Jehu and his reluctant steed swept over 
both men, and they laughed. “We drove halfway, 
and left a cab and cabman somewhere a couple of 
miles the other side of Long Ilkley. He may be there 
still ; but, if it ’s not putting you out, we ’ll get your 
husband to drive us as far as that, anyhow. I may 
tell you that I ’ve practically determined to take 
the place, so I suppose it will be all right — Mrs. 
Reannie would not think I was being unwarrantably 
free with her property ? ” 

“Indeed, no, sir. And if you’ll allow me I ’ll get 
you some tea while Bliss shows you round. I believe 
that I heard his footstep a moment or so back.” 


CHAPTER III 


LILIAN FANE’S MOST PERSISTENT ENDEAVORS ARE 
PUT TO NOUGHT BY THE RISING OF A NEW STAR; 
AND THE PROSPECTIVE CLUB GAINS A NEW 
MEMBER 

That night Simpson dressed for dinner at his club, 
where his man met him with his evening clothes; 
dressed in a hurry, for he knew he would be late and 
he hated explanations and apologies. Not that he 
was fearful of giving offence; for of the people he 
was dining with — Mrs. Cubitt and her niece Lilian 
Fane — the elder lady was too well drilled, and the 
younger too certain of herself, to show resentment 
at anything he did. Indeed, he found himself half 
wishing that he had been impossibly late; sufficiently 
so to have sent a wire from some distant station 
with the plea of uncertain trains. For he did not 
want to dine out at all; still less did he desire to 
escort the little party which Lilian had arranged so 
carefully — and for which he himself had taken a 
box — on to the theatre afterwards : then to supper, 
as he had been led into promising. 

But somehow it had been inevitable, as it always 
did seem inevitable that he and Miss Fane should be 
involved in a series of petty engagements, every one 

27 


SIMPSON 


of which appeared as one link in an elaborate chain. 
Thus if it was lunch at her house, it was always 
pictures and tea, perhaps dinner afterwards, at his 
expense, for her and her friends: or, as now, the 
theatre and supper. Not that he minded the ex- 
pense : it was the galling of the chain itself which he 
resented. Besides, they would be an empty-headed 
lot of people; Lilian’s friends always were — Mrs. 
Cubitt did not count; she ebbed away, somehow 
quite naturally, with the last course — though once 
he had thought of them as a very ‘‘cheery lot.” The 
evening stretched out before him in an endless per- 
spective. He did not like the wine women chose for 
their dinners; or Lilian’s playful airs of possession; 
or the way in which his tie persisted in behaving. 

Fountains Court and that long ramble through 
the open country, even the very sense of difficulty, 
the struggle through that clean-smelling mass of 
greenery, had put him so out of tune for the ordinary 
routine of life that he was conscious of a desire — like 
that of a sentimental girl — to go home, and, sitting 
over the fire, think things over: re-live the past day, 
and picture the future. 

The play was a musical comedy ; something to do 
with “A Girl” — A Girl who fixed herself in no way 
whatever on Simpson’s mind ; which was vaguely 
detached from all that went on around him; only 
recalled in jerks when some sudden demand was 
made upon his attention, some question asked him. 

Usually he liked such things. They distracted his 
28 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


thoughts from business, without stirring up any of 
the depths which he dreaded. The representation of 
real loves left him, if they ended badly, with a pre- 
monition of what might happen to himself ; or, if the 
wire-worked fates were propitious, with a vague 
sense of jealousy. But at a play where the emotions 
were clothed in pink silk tights and set to a catchy 
tune, he felt safe : could listen or not as he liked ; with 
a free ear for Miss Fane’s caressing contralto, and 
the perpetual sparring of the other two who com- 
pleted the party — young Van Rennen and a Miss 
Netta Stringer, who appeared to regard personality 
as the very soul of wit. 

“ But what did you do there? Do you really seri- 
ously think of taking the place? ” insisted Miss Fane. 

Intending a mere apology for his lateness, Simp- 
son had been drawn into an explanation, even before 
the soup was finished : and already the whole ground 
was arid with the way in which it had been padded 
over. Still, she had a way with her, — looked so sweet 
that it was difficult to rebuff her ; though — in that 
spirit of almost savage criticism with which a man 
regards a woman he has once nearly married — 
Simpson had fully realised the irritating use she 
would make of her knowledge: dragging everything 
out into the light of day : admiring, questioning, yet 
receptive of nothing: casting back all his confidences 
with a sort of metallic tang, as if he had thrown them 
against a tin tray rather than a human heart : all this 
despite her calm perfection and soft voice. Even now 
29 


SIMPSON 


she could not drop the subject, which she must have 
realised that he had no wish to discuss. 

“But do tell me,” she went on: “it all sounds so 
interesting, so romantic. And Fountains Court — 
is n’t it a darling name, Netta? And were they 
working?” 

“Were what working?” asked Simpson, rather 
stupidly. Miss Stringer — quite regardless of the 
appeal to her judgment — had just demanded of Van 
Rennen why his mouth might be described as a 
perennial, and he found himself wondering vaguely 
what the answer could be. 

“What? Why, the fountains, of course!” 

“ I don’t know — I — I don’t think there were any.” 

Suddenly a picture of the walled garden rose be- 
fore him: the pool in the middle; the clump of 
pale- tin ted iris and mauve anemones; the delicate 
reserve of the place; the air of the whole house, as 
if brooding over some plaintive memory; the real- 
isation which it brought of everything passing and 
nothing mattering. Then, in sharp contrast, the 
warm living rapture of the blackbird’s song outside 
the library window ; and with it the sudden feeling 
that this was the sort of place where anything might 
happen; where one might dare really to live, fully 
and to the uttermost. 

“Because it stretches from year to year — ear to 
ear — ” screamed Miss Stringer, with a shrill delight 
that caused several heads in the stalls to be raised; 
half in protest, half in curiosity. 

30 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


“ But are you going to live in it all the time? What 
are you going to do there? You’ll be bored to death 
all alone in the country,” persisted Miss Fane. 

“I shan’t be alone.” 

“Oh!” The monosyllable was so archly signifi- 
cant, almost expectant, that Simpson was suddenly 
possessed by a savage determination to let her know 
the worst, get it all over at once. 

“I’m going to found a Club there, a Bachelor’s 
Club. It’s going to be a sort of Sanctuary — a 
reserve. I ’m going to get a lot of fellows together 
who don’t want to marry — won’t marry. We shall 
go there for holidays, week-ends: probably I shall 
live down there altogether, after a while. We 
shall have no women about the place at all; even 
men for servants. We must keep free of temptation, 
you know.” 

The feeble joke offered, half-heartedly, as a sop to 
Miss Fane’s vanity, passed unnoticed. 

“ But shall you get enough members? Will it pay ? ” 
she enquired, with a curious sharpness in her voice: 
an indifference to all else which caused Simpson to 
realise the utter helplessness of his sex against such 
determined, hard softness; along with the fact that 
all his protestations of persistent celibacy had im- 
pressed her no whit: were merely waved aside as 
the passing whims of a child, out of which he might 
be easily coaxed or argued. Would it pay? That was 
the only part of it likely to concern her: affecting 
possible settlements. 


3i 


SIMPSON 


And then, to his own astonishment, he began to 
talk rather wildly. “ I don’t care whether it pays or 
not. Of course it won’t pay — unless we have hun- 
dreds of members, which I don’t mean to have — 
except in peace and happiness, immunity.” He felt 
he was becoming rude, but he could not help him- 
self. “It will be cheaper in the end than wives and 
children; and governesses and nurses and divorce 
courts.” 

“And shall you never have any women there — 
mayn’t I even come to tea?” Lilian leant a little 
forward and gazed at him pleadingly out of her 
shallow grey eyes; showing no trace of resentment 
either in voice or expression ; despite which a sudden 
feeling, as if he were some insect being systematic- 
ally impaled upon a pin, goaded Simpson to fresh 
brutalities. 

“We’re going to have a dinner every year, when 
each man can ask one woman — unmarried — and 
over thirty,” he announced; suddenly adopting a 
whimsical suggestion which Finch had made to him. 

“Oh, what a pity ! I would so have loved to 
come,” breathed Miss Fane regretfully: then added, 
“But, of course, rules like that are only made to be 
broken. Anyhow, how long do you suppose it will 
last? The idea is charming, of course, but — ” 

“I’ve taken the house on a lease of seven years, 
so it’ll have to last. I don’t want to make money 
over it; but I don’t mean to lose. If any members 
fall from grace, they can easily be replaced.” 

32 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


“ But yourself? Oh, of course, you could take your 
wife to live there; if” — and she smiled with a toler- 
ant certainty — “if you do happen to change your 
mind.” 

“ I shall never change it — not on that subject, at 
least,” declared Simpson, in the boastful spirit of a 
man who is not quite sure of himself; and looking 
straight in front of him with an absolute determina- 
tion not to meet Lilian Fane’s ingratiating glance, 
became aware that the opposite box — before 
empty — was occupied by four people. A man and 
woman, of a world perhaps a little above his own; a 
bright-faced school-girl, leaning well forward across 
the front of the cushions; and, against the curtain 
nearest the stage, another woman, whose meditative 
eyes appeared to meet his, bringing with them a sud- 
den fresh memory of the blackbird’s song: a shamed 
sense of the vulgar banality of all he had been saying; 
so keen that he felt himself flush hotly before he 
realised that she did not even see him ; observed the 
school-girl touch her on the arm and whisper ex- 
citedly; caught her kindly nod and smile, then saw 
her turn to the stage, with a sense of loss at being 
accorded the profile, in place of the full face and 
luminous dark eyes. 

But even that was well worth looking at: the 
small, straight nose, the full, grave lips and rounded 
chin; the delicate pencilling of the brows; the long, 
slender neck with its gracious curve; and above all, 
the shape of the head, with its pale amber hair, 
33 


SIMPSON 


drawn back from the brows, loosed a little at the 
temples, and knotted loosely on the nape of the neck. 
Yet it was not only the woman’s beauty — she was 
but five-and-twenty at the time, but no one ever 
thought of speaking of her as a girl — which drew 
Simpson. It was something more; something that 
the seemingly prosaic man felt to be native to him- 
self : and — curiously enough — to Fountains Court; 
that brought back, with a rush, the high thrill in the 
blackbird’s song; the scent of the magnolias outside 
the library window; the whole atmosphere of the 
place. 

The chatter in his own box rattled on, like a charge 
of small shot : Lilian’s account of a flying visit to the 
Riviera ; of the people she had met there — never of 
the things she had seen : the silly stream of badinage ; 
till one of Miss Stringer’s witticisms splashed into 
a sudden pool of silence; and glancing up, Simpson 
realised that Miss Fane was leaning back, meeting 
the girl’s glance with raised brows and an amused 
smile, behind Van Rennen’s back. 

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said. And as 
the young fellow drew himself upright, blushing 
hotly, Simpson realised that he too had been watching 
the woman opposite; whom Miss Fane now began to 
dispose of as a colourless dowdy, accompanied by 
other colourless and dowdy people; who, as it was 
easy enough to see, were — “not in our set.” 

Fortunately for Van Rennen, however, just as 
Miss Stringer was starting on a fresh stream of per- 
34 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


sonalities, the curtain went down for the last time; 
and there was a frantic bustle to get into coats and 
cloaks; every memory of what had passed lost in 
fevered anticipation of the next move, which was to 
be supper at the Carlton. 

Only as Simpson stood aside to allow the ladies to 
pass did he find a moment to glance back, and per- 
ceive that the people in the opposite box were still 
standing quietly, waiting till the crowd should dis- 
perse; the fair-haired woman in the centre with both 
arms upraised to draw forward the blue cloak, which 
the young girl was placing over her shoulders, look- 
ing so straight in front of her that, for a moment, 
Simpson was certain their eyes met. 

In the vestibule, and battling for taxis on the 
pavement, he found himself eagerly scanning the 
outcoming throng: fiercely resentful of Miss Fane’s 
impatience to be gone. Even later his strained 
attention hung on each arrival, as though there were 
only one place in London to sup at, or supper an 
inevitable end to each day. 

“I love dissipating!” said Miss Stringer, with 
whom the memory of Van Rennen’s temporary ab- 
sorption still rankled ; — “I expect that pallid female 
in the opposite box has gone home to a glass of milk, 
Marie biscuits, and her prayers, long before this. 
We’re really dreadfully wicked! But I love it, don’t 
you? Who is it says — ‘Be good and you may be 
happy, but you will have a terribly poor time of it ’ ? ” 
“Netta! You’re shocking Mr. Simpson.” Miss 
35 


SIMPSON 


Fane spoke with smiling tolerance. She was suffi- 
ciently sure of herself to be free of the younger girl’s 
petulant jealousy; so sure that George Simpson 
found himself longing to shake her: wondering if it 
would in the least disturb her perfectly coiffured 
head and well-corseted figure. 

At last their appetites were satisfied. And, pack- 
ing them into a taxi, Simpson was standing back 
to wave a last adieu — feeling devoutly thankful 
there were two of them, and no escort necessary; 
that he could at last call his soul his own — when 
young Van Rennen touched him on the shoulder. 

“I say, it’s still quite early; won’t you come into 
my club and have a drink?” 

“Not to-night, thanks. I’ve had a longish day, 
and still have some letters to see to. I dressed at my 
club, and have n’t been home since I got back.” 

“Are you going to walk?” 

“ I don’t know.” Simpson spoke resentfully, over- 
whelmed by his desire for solitude ; and for a moment 
the younger man hesitated, evidently aware of the 
rebuff, then leant forward, and laid his hand on his 
companion’s arm. 

“I say, do walk,” he entreated boyishly: “and let 
me walk with you. I heard what you were telling 
Miss Fane about that old place, — what’s its name? 
And what you were going to use it for. And, look 
here, I wish you’d let me become a member. It 
sounds ripping. It’s — it’s somehow just what I 
want.” 


36 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


“Oh, I — I don’t know. I had an idea of older 
men, and you ’d find us an awful lot of fogies. 
You’re accustomed to such a deuce of a lot, you 
know, Van Rennen,” protested Simpson. 

He had only met the boy, who was the son of the 
very newest and gaudiest thing in millionaires, half 
a dozen times; and had always regarded him as a 
harmless gad-about, with the contempt that a man 
who has won his own place in the world feels for any 
one who is spoon-fed. The elder Van Rennens smelt 
of gold, and somehow he had always classed their 
son with them; never even dreamt of regarding him 
quite as a fellow-creature. Certainly he was the very 
last person Simpson would have thought of as likely 
to blend with the rest of the little circle he had pic- 
tured to himself. But, for all that, he turned, with the 
young fellow’s hand still on his arm, and began to 
walk down Pall Mall. 

“I’m really not so awfully young. I’m twenty- 
five in the mere matter of years,” protested Van 
Rennen. “And in other things, ye gods! You see 
it ’s like this, Simpson. My people were already 
made when I was born. I never had the fun of find- 
ing out anything for myself ; I was so be-nursed and 
be-governessed and be- tutored. Sometimes I watch 
the little brats in the gutter pretending that a soap- 
box is a motor; they’re as happy as Larry. But 
I never got the chance of pretending anything. If I 
wanted a motor I got it, and lost all the fun of 
make-believe. I was never cold or hungry, or licked 
37 


SIMPSON 


by another chap — never got my back against the 
wall. I did n’t ever go to a public school. My God, 
Simpson, just you picture that! Never went to a 
school of any sort : never washed in cold water : was 
never alone. All my life there ’ve been too many peo- 
ple round me to give me a chance of fun : every one 
of them with a scientific knowledge of ‘ the child 
mind,’ as they call it; as though there was only one 
pattern made ; — my very hot-water bottle wrapped 
in flannel for fear it should burn my little tootsies. 
And now life and women all offered me in the same 
be-swaddled fashion. As far as they’re concerned, 
I’m a hand and a pocket — that ’s all there is to me. 
Or — in a grade higher — settlements and a cheque- 
book.” 

”1 thought you liked women: you always 
seemed — ” 

“ My dear man, I ’ve never met a woman! I hear 
the maids larking down in the kitchen; but when I 
meet them they ’re mere black and white emblems of 
acquiescence. And then the girls in my own set; 
drilled and dressed out of all humanity ; quite ready 
to dance to my piping : ‘ The son of that dreadful old 
Sir Abel Van Rennen, my dear. Ah, yes! dance with 
him as many times as you like: dance him to the 
altar rails if possible.’ I know I ’m talking like a cad, 
Simpson; but I can’t help it — it is true. What does 
marriage mean to that sort? A bishop and a dozen 
bridesmaids and cryptic sayings about the bear- 
ing of children, which of course they fully intend 
38 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


to ignore, because it ruins the figure. And other 
women — fine pink and white flesh at so much a 
pound. I ’m sick of it all ! Good Lord, how sick I am 
of it all!” 

“Why don’t you butt in and do something?” 

“And butt another fellow out of his billet. You 
simply can’t imagine the wheels within wheels of the 
whole infernal thing. I think I’d go to the devil, 
only it seems such an obvious sort of thing to do.” 

“Why not go off shooting somewhere: South 
Africa or the Rockies or somewhere like that?” 

“I don’t know.” They had walked through St. 
James’s Park by now and were leaning over the 
rail of the bridge looking up towards Buckingham 
Palace, across the sheet of moonlit water and mist- 
swathed trees. “It would be very difficult to get 
away without taking the whole caboodle with me. 
Besides, to tell the truth,” — here the boy gave 
rather a shamefaced laugh, — “I have a sort of feel- 
ing against killing things, against taking what one 
can never give. I even hate to see the way women 
hang themselves over with little heads and tails; 
detest the whole brutal paraphernalia of a rich man 
going big-game shooting. To take even risks; to 
shoot enough each day for each day’s needs, that ’s 
a different thing. I ’ve often thought — but I ’m 
boring you frightfully.” 

“No, go on.” 

“Well, I ’ve often thought I ’d like to try my hand 
at exploring, if there’s anything left. A couple 
39 


SIMPSON 


of men and a gun, and just what we could carry: 
sleep in the open, live hard — strip myself. That’s 
why I ’m in such a funk of tying myself up with a 
society woman. A squaw, that’s what I’d like. A 
squaw would be the thing, Simpson. But the inevit- 
able establishment, series of establishments — God 
forbid! Anyhow, I thought that if you’d let me join 
you fellows for a bit, I ’d feel my way — perhaps 
worry out something.” 

“Try it on the dog,” remarked his companion 
dryly. 

“Well, you know what I mean: get my own feet: 
begin to grow. One gets so flounced round with 
women.” 

“Oh, I don’t know — ” In the silver wash of 
water flowing out from the black arch of the bridge 
Simpson seemed to catch sight of a pale profile 
against a dark velvet curtain. “It’s no good being 
cynical — pretending one does not care. After all, 
it’s that one wants too much — follows a star.” 

“But one wants a real star, not an electric light. 
Look here, — it’s an odd thing, Simpson, — all sorts 
of society swells fawn round my people, take all they 
can get, and then sneer at them for being common — 
vulgar.” 

“My dear fellow — ” 

“They’re quite right. They are common and 
vulgar. But they’re something more. My mater 
plasters herself with jewels, dresses all wrongly, 
worships a title. But she married the governor 
40 


THE RISING OF A NEW STAR 


when he had nothing: washed and scrubbed and 
cooked: lost five kids before I was born. And now, 
if one looks deep enough, there’s something between 
them that I want if ever I marry : something in her 
I’ve never found in any other woman. And, look 
here, Simpson, hang it all, but I want to wait, do 
without — or get it.” 

“ Right you are.” They were clear of the park by 
now and stood at the entrance of the block of flats 
where Simpson lived. “Will you come up? No? All 
right, suppose we say dinner at my club at eight 
to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over. Good-night, 
Van Rennen.” 

“Good-night.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LEASE OF FOUNTAINS COURT IS OBTAINED AND 
THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN AGREED UPON 

The next evening Simpson and Van Rennen, Finch 
and another prospective member of the fraternity, 
Pierce Gale, — a young architect of consuming 
ambition, — discussed all the business aspects of the 
affair. 

Simpson had that day seen the agents from whom 
he first heard of Fountains Court, and practically 
taken the place. Now there only remained certain 
forms to be drawn up and signed ; and the approval 
of the owner — a widow of the name of Reannie — 
to be obtained, when possession might be entered 
into at any moment. “A cold-blooded sort of way 
of acquiring Heaven; with its heavenly immunity 
both from marrying and giving in marriage,’ ’ as 
Finch declared; but for all that a very necessary 
formality. 

Dinner over, they adjourned to Simpson’s flat and 
pored over the plans of the house and garden. 
Gale’s pale face flushed with ardour at the very 
touch of the paper. It was then that Van Rennen 
showed something of his father’s capacity for busi- 
ness. He had money, and was willing to spend it. 

42 


THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 


But he possessed an instinct for order, for getting 
the best out of it: though he was quite unaware of 
the fact, and perfectly sincere in his deference to 
Simpson’s opinions. 

At first he wanted to be responsible for half the 
rent of the place. But his host could not bring him- 
self to agree to this. Somehow he wanted to feel that 
Fountains Court was his: disliking the idea of part 
ownership almost as much as a man might dislike 
the idea of sharing a wife. And finally they compro- 
mised over an agreement that Van Rennen should 
pay all the outdoor expenses, gardeners, keepers, 
etc., and Simpson the rent; while the actual running 
of the house should, if possible, be met out of the 
subscriptions. 

The little party had split in two. In front of Van 
Rennen and his host lay a sheet of blotting-paper, 
covered with figures, while at the centre table 
Finch — with a pencil, incessantly at work in his 
long fingers — sat discussing mullions and cornices, 
doorways, fireplaces, and possible additions in the 
way of bathrooms, with Gale, who leant forward 
under the full light of the hanging lamp, brooding 
over the plan. 

To every one’s surprise, he had, only a short time 
before, broken off a long-standing engagement with 
a very charming girl; for no particular reason, as far 
as any one could see. Though as Simpson glanced 
up and caught sight of his waxen features, and the 
deep black shadows in temple and cheek, he some- 
43 


SIMPSON 


how felt that he had been right; realised that the 
man’s almost hectic excitement over, and interest in, 
the idea of the club, arose, not so much from the 
prospect of the thing itself, as the present relief it 
afforded from other thoughts; that he was in a state 
of mind and health when he did not dare to be idle, 
either mentally or physically. 

A little after eleven the bell of the flat rang, and 
Simpson’s servant ushered in another man in evening 
dress, dark and florid: superbly fed, and immacu- 
lately groomed, from the crown of his sleek black 
head to the tip of his polished nails. 

41 I’ve come to see about this idea of yours, 
Simpson,” he began almost before he entered the 
room. “Have you seen the place; eh, what? Will 
it do? — eh?” 

Simpson took the two fingers offered in a sort 
of aside: “Hello, Banks,” he responded; “glad to 
see you. You know Van Rennen, don’t you, and 
Finch — and let me introduce Mr. Gale — Mr. 
Banks.” 

Banks was already engrossing the hearth : engulf- 
ing them all by his size; uniting the divided party 
into a mere circle of colourless planets revolving 
round a fixed star. 

“Is it any good? Have you taken the place? Is 
anything settled, — eh, what? And what about the 
rent, eh — who’s responsible for that? And what 
about the lease, if the fools marry: eh, what? What 
will you do then, eh?” 


44 


THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 


'‘I’ve taken the place.” Simpson touched the 
bell and ordered refreshment — which they had 
hitherto been too engrossed even to think of — for 
Banks’s very presence suggested food and drink. 
“And as for the rent, there’s nothing for you to be 
afraid of there. That’s my affair.” 

“I’m not mean, old chap, — eh? you know that. 
I ’ve got the stuff, and I know how to spend it. But I 
like to be sure how I stand. That ’s only sense — eh, 
what?” 

“Well, it’s like this. You become a member, and 
pay a couple of hundred a year, and use the place 
when you like ; or pay a hundred and have a right to 
be there — either consecutively or at intervals — for 
three months each year.” 

“Oh, I’ll pay the two — in advance if you like, 
Simpson. The idea’s a damned good one — eh, what ? 
What do you fellows say? One wants something of 
that kind — 'poor stricken deer’ sort of business, 
don’t you know.” And he sighed heavily as he mixed 
a whiskey-and-soda. 

“We’re all going to be members; that speaks for 
itself,” remarked Finch gravely. 

“Yes, it’s a fine notion — badly wanted; eh, 
what? Somewhere that a fellow can be safe. ’Pon 
my soul, I believe it was my idea first; wasn’t it, 
Simpson? Anyhow, I’m ready and willing to back 
you — it’s just what we want. At least one place 
in the world where we’ll be free from the eternal 
petticoat.” 


45 


SIMPSON 


“ There is only one condition,” remarked Simpson 
gravely: — “you’ve got to join for the whole seven 
years. If you back out — fall from grace before that 
time — you pay the rest : for the remaining period of 
time, I mean ; with a fine, to be strictly devoted to the 
benefit of the club, of five hundred pounds.” 

Simpson had been mending the fire; and as he 
straightened himself, behind Banks’s imposing back, 
he caught the astonished glance of the other men 
and nodded; then smiled as he realised that they 
had leapt to his meaning. 

“Eh, what? Oh, I say, Simpson, that’s rather a 
facer.” Banks crimsoned, as he turned toward his 
host. “Nineteen hundred pounds! That’s a pretty 
tall order.” 

“Fourteen hundred — let’s say: surely there’s no 
need — particularly in your case, Banks — to con- 
sider that other five. And then the use of a fine 
country place whenever you like — no trouble of 
housekeeping, or anything.” 

“Unless you’re seriously thinking of marrying 
shortly,” put in Finch solemnly. “Of course, then 
it would be scarcely worth joining, and I ’m sure 
Simpson would never think of holding you to any 
careless promise you may have given, before things 
were really fixed up. With us fellows it’s all right. 
We ’ve quite decided. We ’re the true bachelor breed. 
But really, Banks, I think you ’re right to hesitate. 
It seems to me that you’re a different sort of bird 
altogether.” 


46 


THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 


“Different — different, is it? By Jove, you fel- 
lows ought to know better! You, Finch, — and 
Simpson, and Van Rennen. Am I — I of all men — 
likely to make a fool of myself after what’s hap- 
pened? And, by God! you don’t know all, or a frac- 
tion of it either: but I’ve learnt my lesson. All 
women are alike — liars ; and who ’d want to tie him- 
self up for life with a professional liar, — unless he ’s 
been caught before he ’s old enough to know any bet- 
ter — fit to be out of his swaddling clothes! Tell you 
what, Simpson, I ’ll write you a cheque now” — and 
pulling a cheque-book out of his pocket he moved 
across to the writing-table — “for the whole four- 
teen if you like; perhaps that’ll show you whether 
I ’m in earnest or not. By God, to think of me — me 
of all men — marrying!” 

“No; the first year’s subscription will do; I’ll 
trust you for the rest, Banks.” 

“And, by Jove, you may. Too old to be caught by 
chaff; once bit, twice shy — eh, what?” 

“Or ‘habit’s second nature.’ Every proverb has 
its contradiction.” 

“What’s that — eh? What’s that you say, 
Finch? Some confounded flippancy, I suppose. 
There you are, Simpson. And now when are we 
going to take possession? Drains and all that all 
right, eh? Not that anything matters much to me 
these days — typhoid — death — but one must 
think of other people: Christian country and all 
that — eh, what?” 


47 


SIMPSON 


‘‘I’ll see to that. We take possession a month 
from to-day, that ’s a Tuesday. And the first 
Saturday till Monday after I propose we all put in a 
week-end there.” 

“A little dinner — eh, what? Leave the wine to me, 
Simpson. I ’ll send it down from my own man : I may 
be made a fool of — too soft — over some things. But, 
by Jove, no one can ever say they’ve made a fool of 
me over wine. Well ! I ’ll be toddling. I suppose you 
fellows will be sitting up half the night : but I must be 
off, home to bed. Got a big deal to put through to- 
morrow; must keep my head clear.” And with a 
valedictory wave of his hand, he surged towards the 
door; reached it and turned. 

“Not that I sleep when I get there. Never have 
slept anything to speak of since — you know what: ” 
and he paused significantly. “A thing like that 
knocks the stuffing out of a man: shakes him to 
pieces. When I think of it — of all she said ! But 
what ’s the good of boring you fellows with my 
troubles! You don’t understand: nobody under- 
stands.” And with another sigh he was gone, while 
a silence fell over the other men, broken, at the 
sound of the descending lift, by a shout of laugh- 
ter. 

“What is it, what’s the joke?” demanded Gale, 
taking advantage of the first pauseTn their merri- 
ment. 

“Love — ” answered Finch, still laughing. “He 
was let down badly by a widow, nearly a year ago ; 

48 


THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 


poor old Banks. And he ’s been nursing a grievance 
against women, a broken heart, — though I allow 
he does n’t look like it, — ever since. But the fun of 
it all is that he’s ripe for another fall — and we all 
know it: everlastingly trembling on the edge of a 
fresh affair : willing to lay his head upon any breast : 
oozing with sentiment. Heaven only knows how 
many times he ’s been in love since what he calls his 
'great betrayal.’ But he has a sort of shrewdness 
in spite of his folly; for he’s somehow managed to 
escape being actually caught.” 

“It’s more a sort of panic,” put in Van Rennen. 
“ He hops round the limed twig for all the world like 
a prosperous bullfinch; then suddenly gets scared, 
or is diverted by something else, flutters his little 
wings, and is gone.” 

“He’s a good fellow for all that,” put in Simpson. 
“He’d make a woman happy enough; be awfully 
good to her.” 

“The sort of woman whose whole ideal of happi- 
ness is three meals a day and an assured position,” 
remarked Finch. “Well, I must be off. Are either of 
you fellows coming my way?” 

“I’m going to take the underground from St. 
James’s,” answered Gale. 

“And I,” said Van Rennen, “am going to walk 
across the Park; we’ll join forces — eh, Finch?” 

For a few moments there was a bustle of de- 
parture. Then they were gone; and, turning out all 
the lights, excepting the cluster over his writing- 
49 


SIMPSON 


table, Simpson pulled forward his pad and started to 
write a letter; stopped after a moment and began 
absent-mindedly drawing little figures on the blot- 
ting-paper before him. Then — with a curious air 
of hesitation — he took his bunch of keys from 
his pockets, selected one, opened a drawer of the 
writing-table, and drew from it a tiny coloured 
replica — which might have been a postcard — of 
the supposed portrait of Beatrice d’Este; set, evi- 
dently by some amateur, in a wide black frame, such 
as was once used for old-fashioned daguerreotypes: 
laid it on the table before him, and pored over it 
intently, with his chin resting on his hand. 

There was the long neck, with the gracious curve; 
the fair hair drawn back from the forehead, the 
straight profile, the clear limpid glance of the woman 
he had seen the night before : only the profile of the 
living woman was a little more mature; the mouth 
at once softer and firmer; the chin less girlish. 

And yet the likeness was unmistakable, astound- 
ing! Simpson had seen the card in a shop window, 
only that afternoon: bought it and fitted it into an 
old frame: reminded, not only of that one woman, 
but — curiously enough — of that very different por- 
trait of a fair girl in white muslin, on the wall of 
the dining-room at Fountains Court; though there 
the shape of the neck had been hidden, the brow 
shaded by a clustering mass of ringlets. 

With a sudden movement of impatience he thrust 
the portrait back into the drawer, and locked it. 

50 


THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 


“ Tch !I’mas bad as Banks, and with less excuse ! ” 
he exclaimed, and took up his pen again; though 
five minutes later he had once more laid it down, 
and was leaning forward across the table, idly dream- 
ing. 


CHAPTER V 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED — AND INVADED 

The inaugural Saturday till Monday had passed; so 
had Tuesday and Wednesday, but the members of 
the Club still lingered : Banks, because he said he felt 
safe, and was planning out a miniature golf links in 
the park; Gale, because there were certain altera- 
tions going on in the house and he was terribly afraid 
of the character of the place being spoiled; Finch, 
because he liked to sketch or be lazy, as he liked: 
dress as he liked, do as he liked; Van Rennen, be- 
cause he had brought down his motor, and found 
it accorded well with the simple life ; and Simpson, 
for the reason that he honestly liked the place and 
was happy there. 

Already three more members had joined: one a 
writer named Desmond, whose marriage had been 
broken off because the girl had objected to his hav- 
ing used their mutual love affair as the theme of 
his latest novel: drawing her — her weakness and 
strength, her likes and dislikes, her very walk and 
way of speaking, with fateful precision ; adding to his 
sin by not only describing her as she was, but as she 
might, and as she knew she might, — and here lay the 
sting, — become under certain circumstances : a little 
52 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 

fidgety and over-particular : a little thin-blooded and 
austere. 

“It’s bad luck all round,” he complained to 
Simpson. “For if I was n’t able to do my job — see 
people as they are, fathom their thoughts, presup- 
pose what they will be — J would n’t be making 
enough to keep myself, let alone a possible family.” 

As it happened, on this particular day, when the 
little party was gathered under the chestnuts at tea, 
Desmond was up in town arranging for a fresh book 
with his publisher. But the other new members were 
present; a man named Kirkland, who had drifted 
about all over the world, tried his hand at everything 
in turn, and finally made friends with Simpson over 
some deal in rubber; and Gilbert Strang, a lawyer 
in Market Charlford, who had attended to some 
slight business matter for them, and in whom Banks 
discovered an old college acquaintance. 

For once, May was acting up to her reputation; 
and even at five o’clock it was still warm under the 
chestnut tree, where the leaves had already burst, 
while stiff pyramids of buds promised a mass of 
bloom. 

Fountains Court, too, was at its best. It was 
extraordinarily peaceful. The men had all been 
busied over one thing and another ever since lunch, 
— Van Rennen and Kirkland having devoted them- 
selves to measuring out and marking the tennis court, 
— and were in that placid state of mind engendered 
by still weather and sunshine, a good digestion and a 
53 


SIMPSON 


clear conscience, when Simpson’s man, who acted as 
butler, — Mrs. Bliss, retained as housekeeper and 
cook, being the one woman permitted within the pre- 
cincts, — came down the terrace steps and along the 
lawn, bearing a silver salver, on which lay a card. 

Simpson took it and read: “The Reverend 
Stephen Cartwright.” Then he bent his head and 
sniffed. “The thing smells of violets.” 

“ Merely the odour of sanctity, my dear George,” 
put in Finch flippantly; but his remark passed 
unheeded. 

“Why did n’t you show him out here? Go and — 
No, wait ; perhaps I ’d better go in. Where did you 
put him?” 

“He ’s on the doorstep, sir,” replied Jervis 
suavely. 

“What the devil do you mean? Don’t you know 
better than that?” Simpson flushed as he rose to 
his feet: “He’ll think we ’re savages.” 

“ Please, sir,” — the man’s eyes were on the turf. 
He hesitated a moment, then raised his hand to his 
mouth and coughed in a deprecating manner: “I 
did n’t rightly know what to do. There’s — there’s 
a lady with him.” 

Finch laughed. “That accounts for the scent of 
violets. The lady keeps the Reverend’s cards in her 
irreverend cardcase. We’ll presume it’s a wife or 
daughter — eh, Jervis?” 

“Quite a young lady — daughter, I should say, 


54 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


“ Hang it all ! What are we to do ! Some one must 
go out and explain. We can’t start having women 
here, you know,” and Simpson glanced round at the 
ring of unsympathetically grinning faces, with an 
air of growing annoyance. “ I don’t see why I should 
do it — - You, Banks.” 

“Not I, my dear Simpson. What am I here for, 
except to escape from the whole breed — eh, what?” 

“Well, you, Finch.” 

“Tell a woman she’s not wanted! Not I, my 
friend. Besides, I might change my mind when I saw 
her. I can resist everything but temptation.” 

“Well, I suppose I must go. We can’t keep the 
fellow on the doorstep much longer,” grumbled 
Simpson ; and was turning away, when Van Rennen 
sprang to his feet, and slipped his arm through his. 

“ I ’ll support you, come along. Of course they’ve 
got to be made to understand, once and for all,” he 
said, and marched off valiantly in the direction of the 
house. 

Before the front door, which even Jervis’s loyalty 
to the Club had not permitted him to shut, stood a 
stout cleric ; with such an air of being a personage that 
one’s eyes involuntarily sought his nether limbs, 
anticipating gaiters. His hat was firmly on his head ; 
his hand, with one fine ring, grasped his stick as 
though it had been a pastoral staff; while he was 
puffing out his cheeks and lips in a manner peculiar 
to middle-aged gentlemen in a state of huff. 

It was evident that he expected the worst. His 
55 


SIMPSON 


duty as the rector of the parish necessitated his 
calling, but he did not like what he had heard. A 
stock-broker, holding irreligious, or at least anti- 
matrimonial views — along with seven devils worse 
than himself — were not the parishioners he would 
have chosen. Besides, apart from the question of 
morals, their social position constituted a difficulty. 

The newcomers could not be regarded as quite on 
a par with the townsfolk of Market Char If or d, seeing 
that they had sufficient means to rent “Fountains” 

— which was “a place” as distinct from a mere 
house: neither could they be classed with “the 
county.” Very certainly they were not the sort of 
people upon whom he would have chosen to take his 
only daughter to call. But his daughter had insisted, 
and got her own way, as she usually did. Therefore 
his feelings of very natural resentment at being kept 
waiting on the doorstep, and his suspicions of the 
newcomers, were augmented by a sense of shamed 
irritation at his own weakness. 

However, his face cleared at the sight of Simpson 

— who was nothing if not respectable-looking — 
and Van Rennen, in whose person a college educa- 
tion and sympathetic tailor had combined with an 
excellent physique in making him look like what 
Mr. Cartwright himself would have described as 
“some one.” 

Greetings were exchanged, and apologies offered. 
The two men were introduced to the daughter, evi- 
dently but just emerged from the schoolroom ; a dark 
56 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


girl with a white skin, powdered in freckles, a bril- 
liant colour and bright dark eyes; and a few words 
passed, in the midst of which Simpson hesitated, 
crimsoning: for with laughing, challenging eyes full 
upon him Miss Cartwright had moved a step for- 
ward into the hall. 

“ I beg your pardon, but — but, you know, we’ve 
got a sort of club here — ” he began, speaking slowly 
and rather pompously, as was his wont when at all 
embarrassed. ‘ ‘ And, well — well, the fact is — we all 
realise that we ’re denying ourselves a great deal of 
pleasure — but ladies are not admitted. Except” — 
he added, remembering the annual dinner which he 
had mentioned to Miss Fane; and which had already 
been tabulated and arranged, with such complete 
disregard of the age question that no escape was pos- 
sible — “except on very, very exceptional occasions.” 

“Oh, Julie doesn’t mind: Julie will wait,” re- 
marked Mr. Cartwright, disposing of his pretty 
daughter with that airy disregard men show for their 
own female belongings: though with a sort of frown, 
which told her she must wait and at the same time 
hung over her with anxious severity. For, as he 
afterwards confided to Simpson, Julie was too old 
to be whipped and too young to have any sense; 
and there was no knowing what she might do. On 
this occasion, however, he received an unexpectedly 
docile assent. 

“Oh, don’t mind me, Dad, I’ll wait outside,” she 
said, acting on her father’s oft-repeated advice to 
57 


SIMPSON 


* 1 answer up brightly when spoken to”: smiled at 
him and Simpson, swept Van Rennen one glance 
from under her dark lashes ; and sat down on the top 
step. “I’ll be all right here, don’t mind me,” she 
added ; her tone, to her father who knew her, sound- 
ing suspiciously meek. 

Again Simpson hesitated, hating the sense of his 
own inhospitality. But Mr. Cartwright swept his 
way across the hall as though it had been his own: 
commenting on the charm of the place: his hosts* 
good fortune in securing it, and what the Bishop of 
I lches ter had said the last time he was at “Foun- 
tains.” 

His daughter, meanwhile, sat with her hands 
clasped round her knees, regarding the distant land- 
scape in silence for a few moments. Then she took off 
her hat: patted down her hair at either side of her 
parting, which, as Van Rennen observed, was pecu- 
liarly fine and straight; and glanced up at him with 
an obviously assumed air of surprise. 

“Oh, you’re still there, are you?” 

“I believe so,” replied the young man, balancing 
himself on the parapet at the side of the steps. “I 
hope you have no objection,” he continued airily, 
with a vivid memory of the “come hither* ’ glance 
which he had encountered. 

“Well, no; I suppose if I have no right in there” 
— and she jerked her head in the direction of the 
open door — “you have every right here. Life’s 
very unfair for us women.” And she sighed. 

58 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


“I thought you meant — ” began Van Rennen 
rather clumsily: then crimsoned, catching her ap- 
praising eye full on him, and suddenly conscious that 
no society woman he had ever known could surpass, 
in cool aplomb, this country girl of eighteen, with 
her badly fitting blouse and skirt, and thick, dusty 
shoes. 

But at last the gaze grew so persistently minute — 
so devoid of any awkward restraint — that he be- 
came amused, then curious. 

“Well?” he queried. 

“I’m thinking what an odd way you do your 
hair,” responded Miss Cartwright, without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, and with the utmost candour. 
“It looks quite short. But it is n’t really; it’s just 
the way it’s all smoothed back. Really it begins at 
your forehead and reaches right over your head to 
an inch and a half above your collar. If you were to 
give your head a great shake, it would fall all over 
your face, and reach to the second button of your 
waistcoat.” 

“Shall I do it?” volunteered Van Rennen; and the 
girl giggled delightedly. 

“ No, no, not now. Wait till I know you better. It 
will just do to prevent the horrid boring feeling 
that begins when one really gets to know people: 
be something to look forward to. Besides, I shall be 
better able to say what I think by then.” 

“Seems to me you ’re saying pretty well what you 
think now.” 


59 


SIMPSON 


“ Pheugh ! not half !” For a moment she drummed 
with her feet on the stone, leaning back, with her 
two hands, palm downwards, flat on the step be- 
hind her, while her face dimpled delightfully at the 
thought of what she could say if she liked. Then — 
as though suddenly remembering that she was 
grown-up — she sat stiffly erect, drawing her rather 
scanty skirts round her ankles. 

“Seems an odd idea of yours, this 1 Club’ : making 
up your mind not to do a thing that nobody ’s ever 
asked you to do.” 

“Well — not exactly asked, perhaps, but in- 
ferred.” 

“Really? That’s taking things for granted; hint- 
ing, isn’t it? I suppose that’s a bad thing — an 
unforgivable thing — to do.” 

“Absolutely.” 

The girl heaved a sigh. “That’s bad luck. I had 
been considering — of course, it was mere ignorance, 
and I should not think of doing it, now that I know 
better — that as I could hear the servants having 
tea in the kitchen — and am very thirsty — ” she 
hesitated, the corners of her mouth drooping 
disconsolately. 

Van Rennen jerked himself upright, with an ex- 
pression of contrition. “What an ass I am! What 
on earth was I thinking of ? I ’ll go and order 
some.” 

“Have you had yours?” 

“ Just started.” 


60 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


Miss Cartwright leant a little forward, tilting her 
plump brown chin interrogatively toward him. 

“ Let’s both have tea — here on the step.” 

“ You won’t slip in, if I go and order it?” 

“No.” 

“Promise?” 

“Yes, promise.” 

“Honest Injun?” 

“Honest Injun.” 

Over the laden tea-tray, with which Mrs. Bliss 
provided them, the acquaintance ripened: chiefly by 
means of innumerable questions from Miss Cart- 
wright, who wanted to know the names of all the 
members of the Club; everything they did, and 
everything connected with them: above all, the pre- 
cise history of the unfortunate love affairs which, or 
so she inferred, had brought them to such a pass. 

“ But what do you call yourselves? ” she demanded 
at last. “All fraternities like this have a name — 
any old name, like the ‘Oddfellows,’ for instance.” 

“Well, that’s the difficulty. Somehow we can’t 
hit on any name we all like. We thought of the 
‘Bachelors’ Club.’ But Desmond, you know — ” 

“Yes, yes, the one who writes.” 

“ — said that some fellow had written a book 
called that, and it was piffle. But Desmond thinks 
very small beer of other fellows’ books, unless the 
writers are dead. Shakespeare and chaps like that 
he does n’t mind; it’s all a question of royalties and 
best-sellers and things of that sort.” 

61 


SIMPSON 


“ Do you know what I call you? ” Miss Cartwright 
leant forward and spoke in a mysterious whisper. “ I 
call you the ‘Never-Nevers.’” 

“ I say, that’s a good name! That’s a fine idea! I 
must tell Simpson about that. But, look here, how 
did you know about us at all? And if you knew 
about us: knew that — knew what — Well, knew 
what we were, why did you — ?” Van Rennen 
plunged, crimsoning at the sudden sense of his own 
rudeness. 

But the girl’s coolness remained undiminished. 

“Why did I come, do you mean? Well — of 
course, that’s why I did come.” 

For a moment the young man stared at her; then 
broke into a shout of laughter. “That’s a good rea- 
son — you knew that trespassers were forbidden and 
so you trespassed.” 

“Exactly.” Miss Cartwright pushed the tray on 
one side and rose. “It’s getting cold sitting here; 
the sun ’s all at the other side of the house. What a 
waste of time marking the hours on the dial for those 
old fogies. And I know exactly what’s in that garden 
now. Auriculas, and poppy-anemones, and daffodils, 
irises and alyssum. What do you do with yourselves 
all day? And who was the little tubby man with the 
nice eyes who came out to speak to Dad?” 

“They’re not in the least fogies, and the man with 
the nice eyes is Simpson, who founded the Club — 
leases this place, in fact. And — taking your ques- 
tions in the inverse order — I ’ve spent most of 
62 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 

my time, so far, in exploring the country in my 
motor.’ ’ 

“Have you a motor?” Miss Cartwright’s air of 
temporary ennui was gone: she clasped her hands 
and leant forward gazing, with infinite envy, at Van 
Rennen, who lolled over the steps below her. 

“Oh, I say, how ripping! I simply love motors, 
and there ’s no one about here has them. What 
colour is it?” 

“Dark buff,” Van Rennen smiled at the obvi- 
ously feminine question: “a Rolls Royce; not very 
much to look at, but good enough for these roads.” 

“I’d love to see it. Could we — ? Or is the garage 
also forbidden ground?” 

“Of course, you can see it. I’d be only too de- 
lighted. Only I’m afraid you won’t find the place 
very tidy: I had her out this morning, and I look 
after her altogether myself. It really makes all the 
difference — is twice the sport ; and I get on all 
right: though she does n’t look up to the mark just 
now.” 

But Miss Cartwright was not critical. She walked 
round the car, questioning and admiring: display- 
ing an enthusiasm which made the young man feel 
mean at the thought of having taken motors — not 
merely one motor — as a necessity: an inevitable 
part of his life; touching it with her small brown 
fingers, in a way that was almost caressing ; and 
finally persuading him to run it out into the stable- 
yard, so that she could see better; mounting it and 
63 


SIMPSON 


sitting in the seat beside the driver — ‘‘just to feel 
what it is like,” as she said. 

A sudden idea struck Van Rennen. “I say, could 
we — would you care for it — just up the drive and 
round a bit?” 

The girl’s eyes danced as she leapt to his thought. 

“Yes — do let’s — do! Just for half an hour.” 

“Hold on a minute, and I’ll run back to the 
house for a coat or something to put round you ; it ’ll 
be cold when we meet the air,” he said, and was off. 

“I think I managed that very nicely,” remarked 
Miss Cartwright, aloud, wrinkling her brow and 
sticking out her chin in a fashion which was eloquent 
of the most impish triumph, till, catching the eye of 
a grinning stable-helper, she drew herself upright 
with an assumption of dignified maturity. 

A moment later when Van Rennen appeared, he 
had slipped into a greatcoat; and, regardless of per- 
sonal rights, seized upon a promiscuous armful of 
rugs, including a regal fur-lined garment of Banks’s, 
into which the girl snuggled with a sigh of content- 
ment, rubbing her cheek caressingly up and down 
against the soft collar. 

A little later, the Honourable and Reverend Cart- 
wright — warmed and fed with tea and hot cakes, 
and comforted by a most excellent cigar — ambled 
through the house once more : dilating to Simpson, 
Finch, and Banks — both of the latter suddenly 
seized with a desire to speed the parting guest — 
upon the advantages they enjoyed: stopping every 
64 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


moment or so to remark upon the beauty of the 
weather, the poverty of the parish, the excellence of 
the port wine at Fountains Court, during the old 
squire’s time : till at last, reaching the front door, he 
paused, and stared: confronted by a flight of empty, 
crumb-strewn steps ; a tea-tray, bearing the damning 
evidence of two cups, and nothing more. 

“Well, I’m — ” he began, and then paused, 
pushed his glasses up over his forehead ; and started 
again. “Bless my soul! It — h’m! — it appears that 
the birds have flown. Also” — and he pointed with 
a stick to the two cups — “that certain members of 
your circle, Mr. Simpson, — adhering to little more 
than the letter of the law, — are by no means irrev- 
ocably averse to female society.” 

“They must be walking about somewhere,” re- 
marked Simpson feebly, scanning the empty sweep 
of drive and park. 

“Perhaps, if I might suggest it, they have gone 
into the house. If you would be so kind — Mr. 
Simpson.” 

“It’s out of the question.” Finch, standing 
squarely in the doorway at Banks’s side, shook his 
head gravely. “ It ’s against all the rules of the order. 
Van Rennen would n’t dare; it’s as much as his life 
is worth.” 

“It isn’t a question of what your friend would 
dare,” responded the cleric rather testily: “it’s a 
question of what my daughter would dare. And, 
*pon my word, I believe the very fact of a thing being 
65 


SIMPSON 


forbidden — the old Eve, you know. Perhaps one 
of you would be so good as to enquire.” 

“ I ’ll go,” volunteered Banks, and moved into the 
house; penetrated to the pantry, and there ascer- 
tained, from Jervis, that the stable-helper — then 
drinking his tea in the kitchen — had seen Mr. Van 
Rennen and a lady go off up the drive in a motor, not 
ten minutes — or it might be a quarter of an hour, or 
perchance half an hour — earlier. 

“Tut, tut,” remarked Mr. Cartwright, on being 
regaled with this news. “Doubtless our young 
friend has taken her home; she may have got cold 
waiting — ” 

“And an open motor, on a May evening, is so 
peculiarly adapted to warming any one,”commented 
Finch flippantly. 

But their visitor, who was drawing on his gloves, 
did not appear to notice this remark, though his face 
flushed. 

“I suppose I’d better be getting on, too, Mr. — 
eh — Simpson. I feel I ’ve paid you quite a visita- 
tion — h’m — quite a visitation. I shall hope to 
see you at church on Sunday. I suppose your — 
h’m — rather peculiar views do not interfere in any 
way with your religious observations.” 

“I should not allow them to do that,” replied 
Simpson stolidly. Then, having shaken hands with 
his guest, he stood on the steps and watched his 
departure, accompanied by Banks who had sud- 
denly volunteered as an escort. 

66 


THE CLUB IS INAUGURATED 


“It’s begun,” exclaimed Finch tragically. “The 
Philistines are upon us! Look at poor old Charlie 
now, nosing off in the track of the first petticoat he ’s 
heard rustle for a week.” 

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with us,” re- 
marked Simpson rather stiffly : hesitated a moment, 
then moved off with some muttered excuse about 
having letters to write. 

“Oh, woman in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,” — 

Finch, left alone on the steps, soliloquised to the 
crescent moon, which already hung in the pinkish 
sky above Long Ilkley : paused a moment, and then 
continued the quotation to his own satisfaction : — 

“ But once familiar with thy hated face, 

We first endure, then pity, then embrace.” 


CHAPTER VI 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS FOR THE ADMIRA- 
TION OF MRS. STRANG AND HER TWO DAUGHTERS 

“I say, old fellow, have you forgotten?” 

“ Forgotten what? ” Simpson, intensely happy and 
at peace with his whole world, — including the 
boy who supplied him with barrowsful of manure 
from the stable-yard, — was on his hands and knees, 
planting out seedlings in one of those triangular 
little beds, between the forks of the flagged paths, 
which surrounded the sundial ; in what Bliss — from 
sheer exuberance of fancy — was pleased to call “ the 
Italian garden”; where the stones were deliciously 
warm, where the sun beat pleasantly upon his blue- 
shirted back; while he was conscious of a delightful 
sense of honest sweat — he had already forked and 
raked several beds — and complete well-being. 

“There are to be dwarf white daisy things all 
round, and blue salvia things in the middle — a rip- 
ping blue,” he said, sitting back on his heels, and 
smiling up placidly at his friend; completely obliv- 
ious of the question which had just been put to him, 
preoccupied with the delight of handling the fragile 
green things, the scent of the earth, and the antici- 
pation of glories to come. 

68 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 


“ Bless me! Do you mean to say that you Ve for- 
gotten? For God’s sake, don’t sit there smiling like 
an overgrown cherub! Don’t you remember that 
we’re due at Strang’s at half-past four. It’s nearly 
that now.” And Banks fumed as he pulled his watch 
from the pocket of the light waistcoat which focused 
the meridian of his immaculate apparel. 

“Oh, I say, I ’m not going over there on an after- 
noon like this. Get some one else to go — chuck it 
— anything.” 

“But you can’t. You promised Strang yourself; 
besides, there ’re ladies.”) 

“Oh, there ’re ladies, are there?” 

“Well, what of that? One cannot behave like a 
brute because one — Well, anyhow, there ’s no need 
to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve. Now, then, do 
hurry up, there’s a good fellow.” 

“Take Van Rennen,” suggested Simpson feebly. 

“Van Rennen ’s out motoring ; the Lord only knows 
where and with whom. It strikes me, Simpson, that 
young fellow will be forfeiting his five hundred before 
very long, if he’s not careful what he’s about.” 

“What’s the good of fussing?” George Simpson 
leant forward and made a hole in the soft ground 
with his forefinger, dropped in a tiny salvia, and 
patted and pinched the soil round it with infinite 
care. ‘ ‘ What does it matter so long as we ’re happy ? ’ ’ 

“’Pon my word, you put me out of all patience! 
Squatting there on your haunches like a pig in its 
stye. For goodness’ sake, get up, and go and get 
69 


' SIMPSON 

washed and changed. They're putting the mare in 
the trap.” 

“I’ll wash, and put on some clean boots.” Very 
reluctantly Simpson called a boy and handed the 
precious seedlings over to his soulless care. “But 
I 'm hanged if I 'm going to change! ” he went on, as 
he moved towards the house at Banks’s side: “toff 
myself up to go and see people I don’t care twopence 
about. They can take me as they find me, or go 
without,” he grumbled; conscious that he liked the 
earthy smell of his rough brown suit ; the knowledge 
that it had already shaken down to the shape of his 
figure; that the pockets had bagged with the golf - 
balls and cartridges, packets of seeds, knives, seca- 
teurs and other miscellaneous objects which had 
become part of his daily life; that the whole thing, 
during the two months which had passed since he 
climbed up the sunk fence and into the enchanted 
garden, had grown faded and weather-beaten, tufted 
by many a bramble and thorn. 

However, in the end, out of deference to Banks’s 
feelings, he did change into a dark blue suit; though, 
having made this concession, it was with an infi- 
nitely bad grace that he drew on his loose driving- 
gloves and mounted the high dog-cart at his com- 
panion’s side. But his delight in the bay; her easy 
action ; the quick toss of her head ; the feel of her sen- 
sitive mouth, soon brought him to a better state of 
mind. As a boy he had loved horses; had never quite 
got away from them, even in his city life; and now 
70 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 

found one of his greatest delights in the few he had 
already gathered together at Fountains. 

Indeed, in everything he touched, from the warm 
earth and small growing things to this vital creature 
between the shafts, he felt that he was renewing his 
early boyhood; spent on a lonely Yorkshire farm, 
where his parents had sat over the fire, evening after 
evening, talking of little else, save how they would 
send their boy to college and the name he would 
make for himself. Till — on the very eve of a long- 
planned visit to London to see him established as a 
young barrister in chambers of his own — his mother 
had died; while only a year later, his father, too 
proud to let even his son know how the loss and 
loneliness ate into his life, followed her. 

It was all very long ago : nearly twenty years since 
his father died, getting on for thirty since he had 
actually lived in the country. But it was odd how it 
all came back to him, as the name of the wood -sorrel 
had done; the likely place for a peewit’s nest; the 
flash of the moorhen’s red garter; the way to call 
an owl, with a blade of grass taut between his two 
thumbs; the sort of bank a trout lies under; the very 
memory of its touch to small, tickling fingers ; how to 
set a weasel snare, with a bent sapling and scrap of 
wire : somehow it all seemed so much nearer than the 
C.P.R.’s, Vallambrosas, Kaffirs, or Trunks, which 
had for so long been part of his everyday life. 

Strang — who had come over to Fountains sev- 
eral times as a semi-attached member of the Club — 
7i 


SIMPSON 


met them at his door, fronting flush with the street : 
directed them to a yard at the side, where a man took 
the horse; then showed them in. The entrance gave 
onto a small hall; very dark, very highly polished, 
smelling of beeswax and — more faintly — of cab- 
bage : mainly furnished by a large round table in the 
centre ; two or three glass cases containing a stuffed 
badger, a heron, and several indescribably mingled 
birds : a hatstand and two carved wooden chairs. 

From the hall ran a panelled passage, straight to 
the back door, forming a dark funnel, at the farther 
end of which one caught a glimpse of a garden blaz- 
ing with spring flowers, and rows of fruit trees; 
bringing with it an unexpected sense of space, and 
freedom from chimney-pots. 

“They ’re in the drawing-room,” said Strang. 
Then adding, rather lamely, “They ’re not very 
used to visitors ; we are quiet people, as you know, 
Banks,” he opened the first door to the left of the 
passage. 

There were three women in the room, all of whom 
rose as the men entered; two of them laying down 
pieces of embroidery; the third, and eldest, carefully 
putting a marker in her book before placing it on a 
small ebony table at her side: though, for all this 
apparent busy-ness, it entered Simpson’s head that 
they were not so greatly occupied after all : that they 
never had been, or would be, greatly occupied; 
merely considered it genteel not to appear over- 
anxious for their guests’ arrival : the book itself being 
72 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 


— as he observed — a bound volume of Whitaker’s 
Almanac. 

“My mother,” said Strang. And then: “my two 
sisters.” As the three women bowed, Simpson was 
conscious of an extraordinary atmosphere of arti- 
ficiality. It was not that they were pretentious or 
vulgar : merely that they were so well-trained that all 
their warm blood, all the spontaneity of youth, or 
genial mellowness of age, seemed to have evaporated; 
leaving them so like Everlasting Flowers that he half- 
fancied they would crackle if he touched them. 

Mrs. Strang herself was one of those women with 
whom it was impossible to associate the idea of love 
or marriage; or the bearing of children. Indeed, it 
seemed easier to visualise Strang and his two sisters 
as having been propagated, in the fashion of certain 
lower forms of ocean life, merely by being broken off 
the dry parent stem, than as the outcome of any 
warm human passion ; so merciless was Mrs. Strang’s 
attitude towards any of her fellow-women who ex- 
tracted good red wine in place of vinegar from life: 
who regarded even marriage as anything beyond a 
penance ; a more or less necessary submission to the 
brute desires of man; the primitive decrees of a 
Divine schoolmaster; the price of her own natural, 
and perfectly proper, desire for an establishment. 

Probably she had been very pretty when she was 
young : the colourless features were still well-formed : 
the grey eyes finely set. The daughters, too, might 
have boasted some good looks. And thinking of this 
73 


SIMPSON 


Simpson found himself wondering what age they 
could be; picturing them just as they then were, 
thirty years earlier, in short frocks and pig-tails. 

And yet in a way there was a sort of charm about 
the whole family. The feeling that they would never 
fuss or make a scene : an austere restfulness, at one 
with the old-fashioned room, its faded water-colours, 
its spindle-legged chairs, and gipsy tables ; the wool- 
work and beadwork ; the elaborate silver tea-service 
and china — which delighted Banks, who had an 
unexpected taste for such things: all the cherished 
possessions of professional folk in a country town, 
where their forefathers have succeeded each other 
for generation upon generation. 

They talked a little of politics ; of the dreadful state 
of the country; of the “very common people” who 
had been “jumped up,” as old Mrs. Strang called it: 
— “ Members of Parliament were gentlemen in my 
young days,” she declared. 

From this they slipped into talking of the people 
round them: of the “County” — whose affairs were 
chronicled and histories known as though they had 
been royal personages; then, naturally enough, as it 
seemed, they spoke of Fountains Court. 

“You have not seen your landlady, I think,” re- 
marked Mrs. Strang, with a sharp glance from under 
her bent brows. 

“No, I settled all the business through the agent 
and Mrs. Reannie’s lawyer. A lady does not care 
to be bothered by such things.” 

74 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 


“You are quite right. It is much better not to 
know — in any case, not to be intimate with people 
you are in any way connected with in business. I 
am always telling Gilbert that, Mr. Simpson.” 

“We are none of us very likely to become intimate 
with Mrs. Reannie,” retorted Strang, almost warmly 
for him. 

“A bit stand-off, eh?” put in Banks. 

“No — but she is different.” Their host was 
standing leaning against the mantelpiece: his nar- 
row-chested, high-shouldered figure, long face, nar- 
row forehead, and colourless hair exactly duplicat- 
ing the portrait of a rather older gentleman which 
hung above the mantelpiece ; while at the same time 
he was so like his mother that Simpson came to 
the conclusion Mr. Strang, senior, must have mar- 
ried a cousin ; though there was something far more 
gentle and likeable in Gilbert than there was in 
either his mother or elder sister. The younger was, 
after all, a little different: had more warmth, as he 
realised the next moment, when Mrs. Strang re- 
marked that Mrs. Reannie was a “very peculiar 
person.” 

“Mrs. Reannie is lovely, quite lovely!” she re- 
torted, jerking her head in the air, while her face 
flushed into sudden life ; while Simpson — noting 
the glance which passed between her and her brother 
— recognised a bond of union between the two ; an 
infinite regard for this Mrs. Reannie, as evident as 
the disapproval of the two elder women. 

75 


SIMPSON 


“It pleases Lydia to be romantic, Mr. Simpson. 
She forgets that it has gone out of fashion since her 
young days,” observed the old lady, speaking with 
gentle precision; yet at the same time relegating 
both Lydia and her youth to limbo: — “Draw up 
the blinds, Gilbert, the sun has gone behind the 
trees.” 

As the three men stood waiting, while the groom 
harnessed the mare, Strang spoke again of Mrs. 
Reannie. “Fountains Court is her own place, you 
know. She lost her mother when she was quite a 
child, and a few years later her father — who made 
it a condition of his will that any one she married 
should take her name. The Reannies, as I dare 
say you know,” he went on, with a simple man’s 
belief in the absorbing nature of his own interests, 
“are one of the oldest families in the county. She 
married the day she came of age, not too happily I 
am afraid, a Mr. Watson Lee, who ran through the 
best part of her fortune before he died, some three 
years ago. I have a — a great respect for Mrs. 
Reannie: very trying circumstances — very trying.” 

The young lawyer spoke with a staid delibera- 
tion which seemed, at once, to relegate the owner of 
Fountains back to that mature age with which Simp- 
son’s imagination had credited her, and from which, 
for a moment or so, at the sound of the fervently 
uttered words — “Mrs. Reannie is lovely, quite 
lovely!” — she had seemed to spring. 

Banks discussed the family at length on his way 
76 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 


home. “Nice women, those of Strang’s — eh, what? 
Know where you are with women like that — no 
hankey-pankey tricks about them. Quite pretty, too, 
that youngest girl — or would be, decently dressed 
and with her hair frizzed out a bit. Odd they’ve 
never found any fellow to marry them. And the 
china! Did you notice that, Simpson? Fine old 
Lowestoft, and Chelsea, and all those cabinet things 
crammed with stuff.” 

“Can’t say I was much struck.” Simpson drew 
a deep breath of the sweet evening air ; and shook 
the reins for the sheer delight of seeing the mare 
quiver, flash forward with a pretence of fright; then, 
drawing back, coquette with the long shadows which 
stretched across the road. “Look at all that wild 
parsley and ragged robin in the hedge. By Jove, the 
country’s ripping now! Worth that old china and 
that old house and the old lady all put together ; — 
family after family of lawyers they say, and it looks 
like it! Looks as if they had lived on parchment. 
Ugh! the place smelt like a mausoleum!” 

“’Pon my word, Simpson, you’ve about as much 
taste as a bull calf. There were some fine things in 
that room: things that would fetch any amount at 
Christie’s. The old lady’s a tartar; but she’s right 
to keep a tight hand on those girls of hers. If only 
more mothers ’ud do that, we would n’t have women 
playing the deuce as they do with us men.” And 
Banks sighed gustily. 

r “Oh, I don’t know. One’s got to let other people 
77 


SIMPSON 


live,’' returned Simpson vaguely; the whole atten- 
tion, both of himself and the mare, being occupied 
by a motor, humming its way down a narrow lane, 
with high hedges, which debouched into the road a 
few yards farther on. 

The next moment he drew the excited bay back 
upon her haunches, as, with a loud tooting, the 
motor dashed into the main road; ran up onto the 
wide grass margin at the opposite side, and down 
again with a bump ; steadied and turned ; then moved 
along in the same direction as that in which they 
were going. 

“Van Rennen’s car!” exclaimed both the men at 
once: and, in the moment that elapsed before it van- 
ished in a cloud of dust, saw the young man turn 
and wave his hand; heard him shout, and realised 
that his usual place was occupied by a figure in a 
white blouse, while a dark, hatless head, with flying 
hair, pointed steadily forward' above the wheel. 

“A week ago, Van Rennen wouldn’t even let me 
drive that precious motor of his,” remarked Banks 
bitterly: “and now look!” 

“That’s just what I can’t do — confound this 
dust — ” 

“He’s in love with that girl — parson’s daughter, 
too, — always the worst. The fool, the unutterable 
fool! In love, ye gods!” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Because a young fellow takes 
a girl out in his motor, it does n’t mean — ” 

“Because he lets her drive. Do you imagine any 
78 


MR. BANKS FLUTTERS HIS WINGS 


man in full possession of his senses would let any 
woman as much as touch the wheel ; — eh, what? Tell 
me that, eh? By Jove, one would think after all he’s 
seen of the miseries — But there, it seems as if 
every one must find out for himself. I dare say 
even Strang, that poor sheep Strang, has bought his 
experience. By Jove, but it’s an awful world! To 
think how a fellow’s whole life can be spoilt, his whole 
nature warped — If you don’t push on a bit, Simp- 
son, we’ll never be back in time for dinner, and 
there ’s that salmon I brought down from town this 
morning; pity to have that spoilt — eh, what?” 

“ I was only waiting till the dust had settled down,” 
replied Simpson, and shook the reins loose again, 
with a smile at his companion’s sudden change of 
subject: the evident compensations which still re- 
mained to him. 


CHAPTER VII 


PATIENCE GOES UNREWARDED, THOUGH 
PERSISTENCE WINS MUCH 

A week later, Simpson, kept in Town by business, — 
fretted at the thought of the gathering beauties of 
Fountains, with only Van Rennen and Finch left to 
appreciate them, — found himself dining with Miss 
Fane and her aunt. Literally found himself ; for that 
young lady had a method of playing him, of wording 
her invitations, and arranging his affairs, so that he 
was inevitably caught : with a shudder at the thought 
that some day she might, with equal success, set a 
more permanent net. 

On this occasion there were no strangers present, 
and practically they were alone. For though Simp- 
son managed to keep Mrs. Cubitt switched on to the 
conversation during the main part of the dinner, she 
might, as dessert came on, have been swept away 
with the crumbs, so completely did her niece — 
leaning forward with both arms on the table — 
disregard her presence ; challenging the whole atten- 
tion of their guest. After dinner she actually did 
disappear. And, as it was still only May and a cold, 
wet night, they had a fire, and sat over it, in what 
Simpson felt to be a position of dangerous intimacy. 

80 


PATIENCE GOES UNREWARDED 


As usual he was adroitly manoeuvred onto the 
subject of the Club; towards which, with a woman’s 
instinct against all that is likely to impugn her own 
prerogative, Miss Fane’s attitude was more entirely 
natural than anything else about her ; while her con- 
viction that, once let any one of her sex — and class 
— get a footing there and the citadel was bound to 
fall, was evident. 

“I want you to settle — really settle, now, to- 
night — about that dinner — Whom shall we have? 
You must let me help — you will, won’t you? Men 
are so helpless in such matters, and it’s no trouble 
to us women. There ’s Mr. Kirkland and Van Ren- 
nen ; and Desmond and Finch — and who else, — 
oh, Mr. Banks, and Mr. Gale; and that Mr. Strang 
you told me of; and yourself — that’s all, isn’t 
it?” 

Marvelling, both at her powers of extracting infor- 
mation and her precise memory, — and thinking how 
furious Van Rennen, who wished to have his where- 
abouts unknown, would be, — Simpson agreed that, 
so far, it was all. 

“Well, that’s eight: eight men and eight ladies. 
Oh, yes, and I want to bring Netta Stringer, too. 
Indeed, I almost promised her.” 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” answered 
Simpson, making a feeble effort to assert himself : to 
shake free from that intolerable feeling of being 
shifted about like a pawn on a chessboard : of being 
possessed: “you know every man’s to ask one 
81 


SIMPSON 


woman — it was Finch’s idea in the beginning: — 
they ’re all to ask whom they like. Then, you know, 
there was to be an age clause — to protect our- 
selves — a sort of close season.” 

“But, of course, we all knew that was only a 
joke — that you did n’t mean to shut out all your 
own women friends. Now, as to Netta: I’m sure 
Van Rennen would like Netta to come. They ’re 
almost — ” 

“I don’t know — I don’t fancy — ” interposed 
Simpson hastily. 

Miss Fane leant forward, with a glance almost of 
pleasure. 

“You think — ? Poor Netta, she’s awfully in love 
with that boy; any one can see that! Really it’s 
sometimes made me quite uncomfortable. And you 
think that he’s realised it?” — here she raised her 
brows interrogatively — “fled, in fact? Perhaps — 
I don’t know what you men are up to down there — 
there may be another lady, a rustic flame.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Simpson. He spoke 
rather vaguely, for, curiously enough, for the first 
time Miss Fane’s words brought home to him the 
fact that the youngest member of the Club and Julie 
Cartwright really spent a good deal of time in each 
other’s company; to judge from the fact that, dur- 
ing the last week, every one of the men seemed to 
have met them together in some place or other. 

In a moment Miss Fane had nosed forward upon 
the scent. 


82 


PATIENCE GOES UNREWARDED 


“ There is somebody! A farmer’s daughter — a 
parson’s daughter?” — and she literally clapped her 
hands. 

Simpson’s tell-tale expression was caught at. “It 
is a parson’s daughter, the rector of the parish. What 
are you going to do? Shall you turn him out of the 
Club? What will old Sir Abel say? He wants the boy 
to marry a title; but I suppose he’ll come round. 
And the Cartwrights are a good family; he’s a 
brother of Lord Uxbridge, you know.” 

“What ?” almost shouted Simpson. 

“A brother of Lord Uxbridge. It ’s a very old 
title, you know, but not much money. Still, Sir 
Abel ’s got plenty of that.” 

“But how in the world did you know who is the 
parson at — ” he hesitated, afraid of committing 
Van Rennen further. 

But she was pat with the name. 

“Little Ilkley? Why, of course, one does know 
such things,” she remarked placidly. Then added — 
“ Poor Netta! Well, anyhow, I would n’t like her to 
be disappointed about the dinner: I could hardly 
motor down alone, could I ? And really she has looked 
forward to it so much. There’s Mr. Banks now; he 
would n’t be likely to have any one else, would he? 
And it would prevent him feeling out of it: be a 
kindness to two people, don’t you think so?” 

“ But the dinner was to have been an anniversary,” 
protested Simpson. 

“My dear man, you can’t have an anniversary of 
83 


SIMPSON 


anything, unless you have something first for it to 
be an anniversary of. Every other yearly dinner will 
be an anniversary of this first dinner. Don’t you see 
— oh, you clever business men!” And she shook 
her head smilingly. “ How dense you are sometimes, 
over such simple things, too.” 

“But it was to be an anniversary of the open- 
ing — ” began Simpson heavily. 

“Duffer — duffer! is n’t that just what I’ve said?” 
For a moment Miss Fane eyed him with tender 
toleration. Then bent forward and laid her hand 
upon his knee. 

“You ’re not angry, are you? You don’t think I ’m 
taking too much upon myself? It’s only that I want 
to help you. And that — yes, I ’ll confess it, I have 
been a perfect baby about this party of ours. I call it 
ours because we settled it together, did n’t we now? 
But I ’d rather give it up, rather do anything — than 
make you cross. You know that, don’t you — 
George?” 

She was almost tearful. In his subconscious mind 
Simpson was aware that the whole thing was as 
carefully arranged as the elaborate simplicity of her 
dark hair, with its manifold curls and wavings. But 
for all that, it was very becoming ; so were the care- 
fully shaded candles, the pose of her head, bent a 
little forward, with raised eyes. Her cheeks were so 
smooth, her lips so red. It seemed the most natural 
thing in the world to put out his hand and touch ; — 
to take the fruit — so ripe, so freely offered. 

84 


•PATIENCE GOES UNREWARDED 

Then, with a sudden sense of horror, Simpson 
realised all that it would mean. The inevitable 
engagement, which would be arranged for him ; the 
wedding bells — all under an auctioneer’s hammer; 
only in this case the possession would possess, the 
purchase annex the purchaser. 

With a jerk he rose to his feet and glanced at the 
clock on the mantel-shelf. “What will Mrs. Cubitt 
say to my having kept you up so long! I had no 
idea how late it was. I suppose she has slipped off to 
bed.” 

“Yes,” answered Miss Fane, rather blankly, and 
had half risen when an accident occurred which ulti- 
mately gave the Club a new member. For her long 
gold chain, set with amethysts, caught in the arm of 
her chair; and as she jerked back her head, broke 
with a snap and slipped to the floor. 

Simpson, glad of any movement to break the sense 
of strain, picked it up, and bent over it; then ex- 
amined it carefully beneath the lamp. “ I say, I am 
sorry ! Let me keep it and I ’ll get it mended for you. 
By Jove! it’s a beautiful piece of work; I wonder if 
you know where it was got.” 

“ It was made by a little man who has a workshop 
in Clifford’s Inn — a man named Parrifleet. He ’s 
really an artist in such things, not like an ordinary 
jeweller.” 

, Simpson took out his pocketbook, and noted the 
address; then folded the chain away in one of its 
pockets. “ I ’ll get it done as soon as I can and send it 
85 


SIMPSON 


to you,” he said: with that feeling of wanting to 
make amends, which puts a man so entirely at a 
clever woman’s mercy. 

In a moment Miss Fane had seized upon the ad- 
vantage offered. 

“There’s no hurry, only I want it to wear at your 
dinner; the man who made it said it would bring 
luck. You’ll let me help — if only to show that 
I ’m forgiven, that you don’t think me too horribly 
interfering.” 

“ Interfering! It’s awfully kind of you — to think 
of facing such a dinner — taking us in the rough. 
I ’ll ask Finch about it directly I get back, to-mor- 
row evening,” he said, almost effusive in his relief 
at having escaped any more permanent enthral- 
ment. 

Miss Fane had moved over to her writing-table, 
and taken up her engagement-book. 

“ Next week’s too soon, is n’t it? — would scarcely 
give time to settle things. And the week after I ’m 
going to the Blairs. But the week after that. Mon- 
day I’m engaged, and Wednesday and Thursday 
and Saturday. That leaves Tuesday and Friday — 
don’t let’s choose Friday; I’m superstitious, though 
you might n’t think it. That brings us down to 
Tuesday, — Tuesday the loth. There’s nothing 
against Tuesday, is there?” 

“Not so far asjl know; only — ” 

“Well, let’s say Tuesday.” 

And she put a mark against the date in the book ; 

86 


PATIENCE GOES UNREWARDED 


then held out her hand, smiling charmingly. “And 
now, Mr. Simpson, I really must send you off. Do 
you know it ’s actually nearly twelve — what will 
Auntie say?” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 

Lilian Fane was able to wear the amethyst chain 
at the Club dinner; for, the very day after it was 
broken, Simpson — with a soft-hearted idea of doing 
all that he possibly could to make up, though for 
what he would not acknowledge even to himself — 
climbed the steep, winding staircase of number 
thirty-seven, Clifford’s Inn, rounded and hollowed 
by the footsteps of many generations : knocked at a 
blackened oak door, and entered, stooping his head 
beneath the low beam. 

The staircase had been dark, with a curious odour 
of age. But the room — which seemed to have 
changed its mind a dozen times during the building 
as to what shape it would take, and in the end been 
so elbowed by those adjoining it that the floor was 
bent to a hollow in the middle, the great black beams 
twisted and bent — was flooded with sunshine: 
flecking the whitewashed walls with patterns of gold 
and grey from the plane outside; glinting on the 
litter of bright metals which strewed the workman’s 
table, set beneath the window, where a grey-bearded 
man sat working. 

In the centre of the floor crouched a boy, blowing 
88 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 


at a little brazier with a pair of bellows : along one 
wall ran a long table, littered with books and draw- 
ings, and a flat glass case or two ; while above it, 
secured by drawing-pins, hung a number of rough 
drawings of circles and triangles, constellations and 
astral bodies, presenting to the uninitiated an inex- 
plicable jumble of lines, astrological symbols, names, 
and figures. 

“Mr. Parrifleet?” queried Simpson, with a glance 
at the open address book in his hand; upon which the 
man at the table put down the work he was busied 
over — very gently and deliberately — pushed up his 
spectacles upon his forehead, and moved forward: a 
small, frail figure, in shirt-sleeves and white work- 
man’s apron, with deep-set, dark eyes, a fine parch- 
ment skin, and thick thatch of grey hair. 

Taking the chain from Simpson he entered the 
name and address in a book, and promised it in a 
couple of days, — though, as he explained, the in- 
jury was complicated by the gold setting being torn 
away from several of the stones, — all with a busi- 
nesslike precision which seemed more the result of 
habit than anything else, for his eyes were dreamy 
and his voice detached. Then he stood weighing the 
little chain loosely in one hand. 

“I remember Miss Fane ordering it. It was a 
mistake. I told her so at the time; tried to dissuade 
her.” 

“Why?” Simpson, wandering rather aimlessly 
round the room, had paused in front of one of the 
89 


SIMPSON 


drawings — on which was written the mystic title of 
1 1 The Twelve Houses * ’ — representing six circles, care- 
fully drawn in ink and coloured, dividing the equa- 
tor into twelve equal parts, each named; the first, 
towards the east, “The House of Life ” ; the second, 
“The House of Wealth”; the third, “The House of 
Brethren”; the fourth, “The House of Parents”; 
and so on ; each name pertaining to some such thing 
as honour, death, religion, or friendship. 

“Why was it a mistake?” he asked, his head on 
one side, as he read the name of the last House, an 
amused smile on his good-natured face; for to his 
business mind it seemed an odd idea that any trades- 
man should discourage a customer from making a 
purchase. But how odd it all was ! The intense quiet, 
broken only by the monotonous puff, puff, of the boy 
with the bellows : the dapple of leaf shadows on the 
wall, dancing irreverently over “The House of Life.” 
One might have been miles away from London, gen- 
erations removed from the twentieth century. The 
jeweller, having finished the business with Simpson, 
had again bent over his work ; though there was no 
hint of wishing him gone in his manner ; rather that 
indefinable air of making others feel at home, which 
is a gift with some people. 

“Because the amethyst is not her stone, can 
neither give nor save,” he said. “She was born be- 
tween August the twenty-fourth and September the 
twenty-third, which period is under the sign Virgo, 
and should therefore wear sardonyx.” 

90 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 


“Why?” reiterated Simpson, rather stupidly. 

“ Because the woman who has the sardonyx for her 
birth-stone is doomed to certain loneliness — loss 
of married happiness — if she neglects to wear it,” 
he replied, in a matter-of-fact voice ; while Simpson 
turned round and stared broadly, thinking the man 
must be mad ; then saw the corners of his mouth lift 
to a smile. 

“It struck me that Miss Fane might be in need of 
the good influence of just such a stone,” he went on, 
his eyes twinkling. “ But a wilful woman, you know. 
She would have amethyst; and here you see the 
chain already ruptured, with the stars only know 
what else besides.” And laying down his pincers he 
picked up a tiny hammer ; then — still with that air, 
not of disregarding Simpson, but of taking his pres- 
ence as a matter of course — glanced across the room 
towards the boy. 

“You can go now, Heinz; it’s just on lunch time,” 
he said. Then as the boy took his cap and left the 
room, he bent again over his work whistling softly to 
himself, while Simpson stood and watched him: a 
curiously incongruous figure in his well-fitting frock 
coat and patent leather boots, his shining top hat in 
his hand. 

Realising the incongruity he grinned to himself. 
But somehow the place and its owner attracted him. 
He liked the feeling of being taken for granted ; be- 
sides, he had sufficient of the workingman’s blood in 
his veins to delight in seeing how things were made; 

9i 


SIMPSON 


and for a while he stood in silence watching the deft 
fingers at their task. Then he enquired what was 
being done. 

“ It’s a pendant; a love gift ordered for a lady who 
was born in the first half of May. You see, it’s set 
with an emerald in platinum, engraved with the name 
Sarahiel, and the symbol of Gemini ; the whole hung 
in a pentacle.” The man was bent over his work; 
hammering down, one by one, the little claws which 
held the roughly cut jewel in place. 

“Yes?” said Simpson, in a peculiarly quiet, inter- 
rogative way which was all his own, and which inev- 
itably led on others to talk. 

“There is a belief ” — the words came in time to 
the tiny tiptap of the hammer — “almost as old as 
the world, coming down to us from the ancient 
Phoenicians, Egyptians, and Jews, that we each have 
a special stone, according to the day of our birth, 
which it is well for us to wear. There is one for each 
month — not as we count them, but according to 
the sun, and the zodiac. And one for each planet, 
and each day of the week ; every one with its special 
power and meaning — the twelve jewels of the twelve 
foundations of New Jersusalem* were chosen for this 
very reason. Some even assert that precious stones 
not only have the virtue and the power, but that 
they are virtue and power : individual ‘ egos,’ the em- 
bodiment of the soul. So that — or so says Pythago- 
ras — we each find a replica of our own subliminal 
self in some stone. Even Plato believed that they 
92 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 


held a personality that infused itself into the human 
beings who wore them.” 

“But what do you believe?” 

“Who really knows what he believes? Though 
there is very little I would venture to disbelieve. 
For as Democritus has said, ‘All things are full of 
gods.’ But I know this” — he spoke with a curious 
matter-of-fact decision, his words broken to the 
steady tip- tap of his tiny hammer, — “ Each of the 
seven great planetary hierarchies has its emblem on 
earth in some gem ; through which each individual — 
attracted and swayed by some such astral body — 
may find help. One knows so little. Civilisation goes 
stuttering on with endless repetitions. But still 
things are proven. Look at the discovery of radium 
and its power. We are all keyed up to untold vibra- 
tions — impossible to see an end to the encounters 
which may influence us. There is that in our blood 
which corresponds to all in nature. Think of the 
irons alone — protoxide of iron and peroxide of iron 
— the two constituting the magnetic lodestone : of 
zinc and mercury, all acknowledged, even by the 
most conservative of medical men. Then think of the 
electric polarity of gems — the diamond, the garnet, 
and the amethyst, negative; the sapphire, positive; 
while the tourmaline is positive at one end and nega- 
tive at the other. Do you wonder that — themselves 
swayed by the planets, the outcome of planetary 
rays — precious stones should sway us as they do? 

“You know, of course,” he went on, presupposing 
93 


SIMPSON 


a certain knowledge on Simpson’s part; speaking as 
calmly as though he had been discussing Tariff 
Reform: “that there is an Anima Mundi — what 
modern scientists call a Luminiferous Ether — a 
mysterious emanation: permeating everything in 
nature; connecting all things. What Agrippa calls 
‘The Soul of the World.’ ” 

But George Simpson’s matter-of-fact mind was 
plodding far behind: — “I was born in August,” he 
said, “the tenth or eleventh, ’pon my soul, I forget 
which ! No one ever remembered it since my mother 
died.” 

“A ruby set in gold — engraved with the symbol 
of Leo.” The words came slowly, for the jeweller had 
moved across the room and was at work with the 
bellows: all the nervous force of his frail body bent 
to the task. 

“I’ll blow,” volunteered Simpson: “it will leave 
your hands free.” And being accorded permission, 
he took off his coat, turned back his shirt-cuffs, and 
blew steadily while the encircling pentacle was sol- 
dered round the mounted gem; then hung over the 
table and watched a hole being bored, and a tiny 
ring inserted. 

Rather reluctantly he resumed his coat, and dusted 
away the glittering filings of metal. “ I ’ll come back 
in a day or so for the chain,” he said. 

“Oh, you need n’t do that; I can send it,” replied 
the jeweller; and Simpson thanked him, murmured 
a few commonplaces and moved to the door; then 
94 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 

hesitated and turned, with an expression like an 
embarrassed schoolboy. 

“Supposing I was to have a charm, or something 
of that sort, with my special stone: I could n’t wear 
a ruby ring, you know — ” he began, and paused 
interrogatively. 

“You might have a little charm for your watch- 
chain, quite inconspicuous — I believe you’d find it 
a help.’’ 

Simpson moved back to the table and began 
fingering the articles upon it. “Well — of course, I 
can’t say I have much faith in such things. But 
what do you — you yourself believe that it would do 
for me?” 

Parri fleet peered up at him with mild, short-sighted 
eyes. “The ruby brings love, power, and dignity to 
the man whose birth-stone it is ; causes all obstacles 
to disappear from his path ; inspires him with brav- 
ery and zeal.” 

“Oh,” said Simpson. Then — being a business 
man to the bone — he added tersely, “ How much? ” 

“The ruby is an expensive stone, but quite a small 
one would suffice. It might cost two pounds — if 
that would n’t be too much? — Even more — but I 
would make it as cheaply as possible.” 

“Supposing we say five pounds. After all, that’s 
not much for having one’s path in life made clear.” 

“I could do you something good for that: really 
good,” the little man flushed with excitement and 
zeal. “See here, we’ll have the ruby hung clear in a 
95 


SIMPSON 


triangle, lettered round with the three syllables of 
the mystic name of Seratiel.” And drawing a scrap 
of paper towards him, he began sketching a design, 
with a quick nervous touch. 

“All right, go ahead. They’ll chaff my life out of 
me if they ever find it — but let’s hope they don’t,” 
added Simpson devoutly. “Well, good-morning, Mr. 
Parrifleet.” 

“Good-morning,” said the jeweller, without rais- 
ing his head : aflame with the ardour of a new idea. 

“I’ll come again — call for it.” 

“ Say this day week.” Parrifleet straightened him- 
self; and moving across to a pile of dusty papers, 
which lay on the shelf, began turning them over with 
an abstracted air. “When did you say you were 
born?” 

“In August, the tenth or eleventh.” 

“Ah, you don’t know which? That’s a pity! It 
would make all the difference. But — ” his face 
brightened: “perhaps you can tell me the hour.” 

“Lord, no!” protested Simpson, crimsoning. 
“You could n’t expect me to remember a thing like 
that.” 

“ I suppose not — but it’s a disgrace that, in these 
days, no entry should be kept of such things. How- 
ever, I ’ll do the best I can, the very best. Because,” 
— here he turned his limpid childish gaze full on 
Simpson, — “because I like you. You don’t quite 
believe — yet. But you don’t laugh. There’s been 
some fine things said about that — very fine things: 

96 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 


— 4 The crackling of thorns under a pot,’ and — 1 the 
loud laugh that shows the empty mind.’ In a week, 
then.” 

The little old man seemed so vague, so cobwebby 
and unreal that Simpson scarcely expected to find 
the charm ready when he called a fortnight later. 
But there it was, delicately and exquisitely finished. 

“ It’s been waiting a week for you,” said the jew- 
eller. “Miss Fane’s chain? Oh, yes, it was returned 
to her long ago. Now, I ’m only waiting for it to come 
back again,” he added with a sly smile. 

“Of course, he’s a fool, with all those mad ideas 
about stars and all that,” said Simpson, in telling 
Desmond of his new acquaintance: “but there’s 
something about him — ” 

“Of course, there is something about him,” 
reported Desmond, who — fired by the idea of copy 

— went himself to interview Parrifleet: returning 
with the shamefaced confession that he also had 
ordered a charm. “The fact is he’s that rare bird, a 
wise fool ; a whimsical new-born, with all the wisdom 
of the ages. He ought to join the Club: we want a 
few additions like that ; something different. There ’s 
nothing to be got out of any of you fellows. Sound 
him about it, Simmy.” 

“An ordinary workman ! ” protested Banks ; found 
his way to Clifford’s Inn, swelling with outraged 
pride and curiosity; and returned to declare Parri- 
fleet as being “ The most extraordinary person! ’Pon 
my soul, the things he told me!” 

97 


SIMPSON 


Outspread in front of the empty hearth in the 
library, he puffed out his cheeks with an air of por- 
tentous importance: “The way he grasped all the 
details of my case; my peculiar sensitiveness. Of 
course, I was able to tell him the day I was born ; the 
very time, — almost to a minute.” 

“Just the sort of thing that you would know, 
Charley,” put in Finch. 

“ Ton my soul, we must have been talking for an 
hour,” continued Banks, disregarding the interrup- 
tion, for it was never wise to cross swords with 
Finch ; ‘ ‘ then went out and had lunch together. He ’s 
a good fellow — a doocid interesting fellow, and all 
that — but if you value your digestions, don’t you 
chaps be induced to grub at any of his pet haunts. 
Took me to a place with sort of texts hung round — 
not out of the Bible, you know; might have been 
Shakespeare — and all kinds of queer-looking people 
with long hair; looked as if they wanted tubbing. 
And the food. By God, you would n’t believe what 
it was like. No wonder that poor little chap Parri- 
fleet looks like a sick mouse ! He ’d some high-sound- 
ing name for it, too. What was it — eh, what? Oh, 
I remember! ‘The Pythagorean Diet.’ The Pytha- 
gorean Diet! There’s a title for you! And all for 
what? Messes of eggs and green stuff — muck, I 
call it — muck ! Not so much as a chop in the place. 
What do you think of that now — eh, what?” His 
voice rose to an aggrieved bellow. 

“I asked for a loin chop — a plain grilled chop — 
98 


A MYSTIC AND A NEW MEMBER 


and they said they could give me a nut cutlet — 
me — me! By Jove, I can tell you that the stuff 
turned me queer for days. Regularly squiffy: went 
to see Maclaren about it — paid two guineas — 
felt as if I ’d been blown out with a bicycle pump. 
Have Parrifleet here if you like, Simpson ; I wash my 
hands of the whole affair. But, by God ! if I find him 
interfering with the grub — ” 

The end of this speech was lost, both from want of 
breath and words adequate to the expression of his 
feelings. But, though the thought of what Finch 
termed his “ensilage meal” possessed Banks for 
weeks, he yet visited Parrifleet again and again ; was 
seen sporting a charm of beryl, set in gold and en- 
graved with a frog, — which by some circuitous 
means Finch ascertained to be a love talisman, — 
and quoted his new acquaintance’s doctrines with 
ever increasing awe. 

“He’s a humbug,” maintained Finch. “I know 
those spiritual sort of Johnnies. Ten to one he lives 
on gin, and has dozens of wives — murdered, buried 
in cellars — or all alive at once.” And in this atti- 
tude he persisted; until several weeks later Parri- 
fleet, having starved his body and overridden his 
soul, was brought down to Fountains Court — look- 
ing really very like a sick mouse — by Simpson, who 
fitted up a quaint, octagonal, stone kiosk in the park 
as the little man’s workshop : and formally initiated 
Parrifleet as an honorary member of the Club. 

Then, of course, even Finch was won over. Any 
99 


SIMPSON 


one might laugh at Parrifleet’s gentle absurdities, 
or at his quaint and whimsical wit. But it would 
have been a very dense or very base-minded man 
who failed to realise his limpid honesty, the force of 
his ecstatic beliefs. 


CHAPTER IX 


ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS 

Three days before the date fixed for the dinner party 
Miss Fane swept down upon Fountains in her motor, 
accompanied by Netta Stringer. As it happened 
they arrived when the whole party were out, and 
were successfully kept at bay: first by Jervis, and 
then by the housekeeper, whom he called in to sup- 
port him. What actually transpired after this Simp- 
son never knew. But he gathered that Miss Fane had 
accused Mrs. Bliss of belonging to the forbidden sex, 
and received the stolid reply that she was “merely 
a servant”; that later a threat had been made of 
acquainting him with her “insolence,” on which the 
intruder had been informed that Mr. Simpson was 
far too fair a gentleman to find fault with her for 
obeying orders. For the rest, he could well imagine 
the almost regal manner in which Mrs. Bliss would 
square her shoulders, smooth down her apron, and 
banish every scrap of expression from her face. 

Anyhow, when Simpson did return to the house 
accompanied by Kirkland, with whom he had spent 
the day fishing, — both of them hot, dirty, and 
caring for nothing but the prospect of a bath and 
dinner, — he found Jervis on guard, Mrs. Bliss hov- 

IOI 


SIMPSON 


ering in the hall; and two decidedly cross young 
women still waiting at the door in their motor. 

There was something perilously approaching a 
scene, so distinct was the acid note at the back of 
Miss Fane’s raillery. But Simpson, backed by Kirk- 
land’s cool contempt, and buoyed up by the sense of 
being on his own ground, stood unexpectedly firm. 
The servants had only done their duty : their orders 
were very strict. It was as eminently a man’s club 
as any in Pall Mall. But they would have brought 
tea out in a moment, — the loss of this meal appar- 
ently being the crowning grievance, — should have 
offered to do so in fact. 

Miss Stringer laughed rather hysterically: "Out 
here, on the steps with the dogs ! I can’t congratulate 
you on your hospitality, Mr. Simpson. Come along, 
Lilian, I vote we get back to Town — it’s very evi- 
dent that we ’re not wanted here. We can have din- 
ner somewhere on the way up.” 

But Miss Fane, who had found time to pull herself 
together, was too astute to spoil her chances by in- 
dulging in a fit of the sulks. There were men who 
could be got round that way. But, as she often 
declared, once having reached the age of forty they 
valued nothing so much as a sweet temper, and the 
prospects of peace, should they venture to embark on 
married life; though pets and tantrums might be, 
and often were, effective in the management of mere 
boys. 

"We really didn’t mean to bombard you in 
102 


ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS 


this way, Mr. Simpson,” she said, leaning forward 
towards him and speaking very sweetly; “only to 
stop and ask if there was any place — country inn or 
anything like that — near here where we could put 
up. It seemed to be getting unbearably noisy and 
hot in Town, and I ’ve been having a series of stupid 
headaches. So Netta and I made up our minds we 
would run off together. Then, just in time, we remem- 
bered your dinner party, and thought we might as 
well be somewhere in this neighbourhood — that 
you were sure to be able to tell of some place. 

“You don’t mind?” she went on pleadingly. “It 
seemed such a sensible idea — and I thought that 
possibly we might be of some use.” 

“That’s all right. I’m very glad to see you; it 
will be charming to have such neighbours.” Simp- 
son lied with slow deliberation. “The worst of it is 
that I ’m afraid there ’s nowhere quite near. There ’s 
a place at Long Ilkley, but it’s a mere pub.” 

“There’s a decent hotel at Market Charlford,” 
put in Kirkland adroitly, suddenly remembering 
that it was twice the distance from Fountains Court. 
“ I believe you will be all right there. But surely you 
did n’t drive yourselves down?” 

“Oh, no, Barker’s in the kitchen, having his tea, 
I believe,” replied Miss Fane rather grimly. “Per- 
haps some one would call him for me. No, thanks, 
we won’t have tea now. Indeed, Mr. Simpson, — 
it must be nearly dinner-time.” For a moment she 
paused, leaning pensively — almost hungrily — over 
103 


SIMPSON 


the edge of the car; and gazing up at Simpson, who 
showed no signs of taking the hint. 

“ Do you remember our last dinner, I wonder — ” 

“ I remember many dinners — hope to remember 
many more.” Simpson spoke placidly, but with 
averted eyes, for he had no intention of being played 
twice with the same fly. Then turning, almost too 
swiftly, towards the chauffeur who followed Kirk- 
land from the house — still chewing — he began to 
give him concise instructions as to how he might 
reach the little market town : instructions which per- 
mitted of no mistake. 

At last it seemed that all was over. He was actu- 
ally shaking hands, murmuring something about feel- 
ing “terribly inhospitable”: his thoughts engaged 
with the prospect of a hot bath and a change, dinner 
and a cigar. “We don’t — we’re obliged to — you 
see, we’ve made the rules,” he heard himself declar- 
ing vaguely. 

“And, of course, the rules one makes one’s self are 
the ones that never can be broken,” put in Kirkland; 
both men rendered almost ardent by the fact that 
release was so imminent. 

“Must keep out of temptation, you know,” bab- 
bled Simpson, merely to kill time, while Barker 
got the motor started. “Must deny ourselves the 
pleasure — ” he was going on; when he was inter- 
rupted by the sound of a violent slamming of doors ; 
a peal of laughter; the rush of footsteps across the 
hall : more slamming of doors in a perfect crescendo ; 

104 


ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS 


echoing along the west wing of the house: up the 
stairs, through every room, then downstairs again; 

Suddenly Miss Stringer gave an exclamation of 
surprise. 

“There’s Mr. Van Rennen,” she cried. “What 
— ” she began again; then stopped and stared; 
while a silence fell on the little group gathered at 
the bottom of the steps, their whole attention riv- 
eted upon Van Rennen ; who, with an air of extraor- 
dinary caution, backed towards the entrance; and, 
pressing himself between the inner and outer doors, 
drew the folds of a curtain round him. 

The next moment the door of what Simpson 
knew must be the kitchen slammed loudly; and a 
girl’s figure, in a light summer dress, flashed through 
the hall; twirled round and stood for a moment, 
poised on tiptoe, bending forward towards the inte- 
rior. 

“Done it! Done it! Every single room. Six pairs 
of gloves, please, six and a quarter!” she cried: drew 
herself upright, and flapped her bent arms against 
her sides — ‘ ‘ Cock-a-doodle-doo ! — Cock-a — ’ ’ 

“Got you ! ” Van Rennen’s two hands had shot out 
from the alcove, grasping her firmly by the elbows; 
then, holding both arms behind her, he bent over 
the dishevelled head. 

“Caught! Fairly caught!” 

“Rot! I’ve won — I did it!” she cried, struggling. 

“Story! It was in at one door, all through the 
house, and then out at the other. And where are you 

105 


SIMPSON 


now? Come, pay up!” laughed the young fellow, 
and bent his head towards the averted cheek. 

With that feeling of utter guilt which overcomes 
any honest man who sees what he is not meant to, 
Simpson realised that he was actually going to kiss 
the girl: there in front of them all. 

“ Hullo ! Van Rennen ! ” he cried ; and in a moment 
the two were facing round, three feet apart upon the 
doorstep. There was a pause. Then : — 

“Hullo!” responded the young man; and added 
rather feebly, “I say! I did n’t know any one was 
there.” 

“ It was a bet,” put in Julie. “Six pairs of gloves 
against — against a — a — a — that I’d run through 
the house.” She spoke quickly, still panting and 
with a scarlet face. Then jamming the soft white 
felt hat which she had been carrying firmly down 
upon her head, she pushed back her hair beneath it, 
— while her eyes swept the two ladies in the car 
with a defiant air, — and repeated: “Anyhow, I 
won, so there!” 

“I’m surprised. You — the daughter of a clergy- 
man, too — ” Van Rennen was beginning when Miss 
Fane claimed his attention. 

“Won’t you introduce me?” She was laughing as 
she spoke, as if not altogether ill-pleased. “So you ’ve 
really stormed the citadel, Miss Cartwright,” she 
went on, waving a beautifully gloved hand as Van 
Rennen made the introduction. “Mr. Simpson can 
never again boast that no woman — excepting that 
106 


ALARMS AND EXCURSIONS 


Borgia person who housekeeps for him — has entered 
these sacred portals. Unless” — and she turned to 
him with a half-malicious smile — “your servants 
have orders to exercise a nice discrimination.” 

“Miss Cartwright knew that she was breaking 
bounds, as well as I do,” responded Simpson lightly. 
But, for all that, something in his voice, or manner, 
told Julie that he was annoyed, hurt; though she 
was shrewd enough to realise that the sting lay less 
in her tomboy achievement than in the fact that it 
had been witnessed by this elegantly dressed woman, 
and smart, cross-looking girl at her side. Upon which 
a sudden sense of furious antagonism towards them, 
and intense loyalty towards the Club and its menp 
bers, — one and all of whom had been unfailingly 
nice to her, — of regret that she should have vexed 
Simpson, whom she sincerely liked, and of shame at 
her own escapade, swept over the girl. 

“It had nothing to do with anybody. Mrs. 
Bliss has known me ever since I was born, but she 
would n’t have let me an inch inside the door if she 
could have helped it. It was only a lark; I made 
the bet and ran. He” — here she jerked her head 
in Van Rennen’s direction — “never even took it 
up.” 

“Oh, I say, I did. I — it was every bit as much 
my fault.” 

“Shut up! It was all my fault, Mr. Simpson.” 
The girl’s excitement was evaporating: for a moment 
her lips trembled. Then she drew herself upright, 
107 


SIMPSON 


and put out her hand with a gesture of boyish frank- 
ness : ‘‘I’m awfully sorry. It was an unpardonable 
thing to do. Will you forgive me?” 

“Of course, that’s all right — ” Simpson looked at 
her kindly. A sudden thought flashed through his 
head that he would be proud to have such a girl for 
his own : that the cherished Club was really a ridicu- 
lous idea: that he was getting to be a hopeless old 
bachelor: would soon be too old to see any sons or 
daughters of his growing up around him. Then his 
eyes twinkled: — “After all — it is only grown-up 
ladies who are debarred,” he said: “there is no law 
against children.” 

With a grimace Miss Cartwright swung round, all 
her insouciance returned; nodded lightly to Kirk- 
land, then ran down the steps, and — her face 
dimpling with mischief — leant forward towards the 
car. 

“There’s absolutely nothing worth seeing, take 
my word for it. I ’ve known Fountains Court ever 
since I could walk, inside and out. And there ’s not a 
single addition, not a single Blue Beard’s chamber, 
not even a solitary wife’s head,” she whispered mys- 
teriously. Then, with a demure little bow, turned 
and made her way sedately up the drive, without a 
single glance at her former playfellow. 


CHAPTER X 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER, TO WHICH EACH MEMBER 
MAY INVITE ONE FEMALE GUEST, IS PREGNANT 
WITH RESULTS FOR THE ONE MEMBER WHOSE 
GUEST INVITES HERSELF 

The portraits in the dining-room at Fountains 
Court must have witnessed many curious phases of 
life — even the ringleted Early Victorian maiden, the 
youngest of them all. But it is certain that they 
could have witnessed few more curiously assorted 
gatherings than on that night in mid- June, when 
“The Never-Nevers, ” as the members of the Club — 
picking up J ulie Cartwright’s nickname with delight 
— chose to call themselves, gave their first dinner. 

George Simpson found himself looking down the 
long table ; wondering who would be there next year : 
what old members would have seceded, what new 
ones joined. They had only been together for two 
months, and yet things were beginning to happen. 
His eyes wandered along the two lines of bright faces, 
and rested on the youngest member with a sort of 
wistfulness. How jolly youth was with its intense 
joys and sorrows, its ardent hopes. What fools men 
were who put off living till life was half done. 

Anyhow, there was Van Rennen, already as good 
109 


SIMPSON 


as lost to the Club, and he was actually glad of it. 
It seemed as if they were all insensibly changing 
their outlook on life. Was it the something contrary 
in human nature? Anyhow, he himself had altered; 
perhaps more than any of them. His sense of con- 
firmed bachelordom vanished with his very effort 
to ensure its permanency ; for the Club which he had 
founded, partly from fear of slipping into one of 
those uncongenial marriages which are the fate of so 
many men of his age, had already grown to seem 
nothing more than a retreat, a place of probation — 
of waiting — though for what he scarcely knew. 

During the last month he had hardly been in 
Town at all. Fountains had somehow become native 
to him, he hated to be away from it : came back, for 
the first time since his boyhood, with a sense of really 
returning home. 

Almost insensibly he found himself spending 
money on the house and gardens: planning for the 
place, thinking of it, as though it were his own. The 
seven years’ lease, which had at first glance appeared 
endless, began to represent an intolerable limitation 
to his happiness; and already he was sounding Mrs. 
Reannie’s lawyer as to whether she might not be 
induced to sell the place: had even raised his offer 
with a business man’s unassailable belief in the power 
of money. 

The table looked well. Mrs. Bliss, her husband, 
and Jervis had joined forces to some effect; stimu- 
lated, among other things, by their desire to show 
no 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


Miss Fane and her friend that no help was needed; 
and a bachelor by no means the helpless, badly 
served creature that they imagined. Thus all the 
silver and roses of Fountains Court were on view : the 
branching candlesticks — down the long table and 
burgeoning out from between the pictures — all 
alight. For whoever fitted the place with electric 
light had stopped at the dining-room, where on 
ordinary occasions a couple of candlesticks broke 
the gloom; casting a small circle of light round the 
little group of men who sat discussing their business 
affairs ; listening to Kirkland’s tales, talking of Italian 
architecture with Gale, or Art with Finch ; and in no 
way indulging in any of those wild debauches with 
which the neighbourhood credited them. 

Half out of bravado, half to prove his spiritual as 
well as actual freedom, Desmond had persuaded his 
lost sweetheart to be his guest of honour. Indeed, 
there was a pretence of friendship between the two ; 
their blatant bonhomie being contradicted by the 
way in which Desmond watched the girl when she 
was talking to any one else : by her flushed cheek and 
dilated eyes when she felt his glance upon her; the 
exaggerated pleasure which she seemed to find in her 
left-hand neighbour. 

Simpson watched the whole affair like a man in a 
play, who, waiting for his cue to step upon the stage, 
amuses himself by observing the other actors. But, 
apart from this, the girl, with the aureole of misty 
brown hair, small, rather austere face and dark eyes, 
hi 


SIMPSON 


was well worth the watching; her white shoulders 
and pale yellow dress, backed by the portrait of a 
dead and gone Reannie in dark armour, standing as 
if on guard above her. 

On Simpson’s own right hand was Lilian Fane, 
who, having constituted herself his special guest, was 
in a most alluring mood; at which, for the first time, 
he felt himself safe enough to be amused. For by 
this she had come too near, made herself too plain. 
Besides, she did not fit into Fountains, was most 
palpably an alien. 

For the rest — there was Julie Cartwright as Van 
Rennen’s guest, in a girlish white muslin which she 
abominated and upon which her father — conscious 
of his weakness in letting her be present at all — 
had insisted ; along with the chaperonage of a lanky 
brother, a year her senior in actual age, and ten 
years her junior in knowledge of the world. 

“ I feel as if I smelt of bread and butter,” she com- 
plained to Van Rennen. “Why, oh, why was I born 
with a father who makes sumptuary laws for his 
womenkind ! He says all his sisters wore white mus- 
lin till they married — as if that was any reason!” 

“Perhaps, if you married — ” 

“Burned Rome to cook my chop,” retorted Miss 
Cartwright pertly: her equanimity so completely 
restored by that most intoxicating wine which any 
woman can sip — a man’s unfeigned admiration — 
that before dinner was half over she had forgotten 
the despised frock, and was coquetting between Van 
1 12 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


Rennen and Kirkland, with as much audacity as any 
Paris-robed belle ; though through all her girlish fol- 
lies Van Rennen, who knew his world, discerned that 
sterling honesty and good sense which had, from the 
first, attracted him. Realising that — though she could 
hold her own with any of them, was far too shrewd 
to wear her country heart on her sleeve for town daws 
to peck at — the heart was there, warm and un- 
spotted. What a pal she had already proved herself, 
what a mate she might yet prove, he thought; 
cursing Kirkland, with all his easy traveller’s 
tales. 

Banks had chosen for his guest the youngest Miss 
Strang; who, in a tentatively low dress of grey nun’s 
veiling, sat at his side: half scared like some moth 
that by chance had fluttered into a circle of lights; 
among which Banks’s own resplendent person — all 
his other glories focused in the diamond decorating 
his broad expanse of shirt-front — was by no means 
the least bewildering. 

“The sort of woman who does n’t expect a man 
to make love to her,” he had said. And immediately 
began to do so, with a blatant appeal for pity and 
understanding. 

On Finch’s right hand was a gay young widow, 
who had brought Desmond’s partner down in her 
motor; along with an artist girl whom Gale had 
invited; one of those women with clever, worn face, 
short hair, and pince-nez: who — excepting for the 
accident of dress — might have been equally well 

113 


SIMPSON 


taken for a dissipated young man of twenty, or well- 
preserved woman of forty; though in reality she 
was twenty-five: with no past, and far more senti- 
ment than brains. 

Kirkland, with a very bad grace, — declaring that 
next year he would bring a squaw from the wilds 
of North America, — had allowed himself to be re- 
garded as Netta Stringer’s partner: keeping Simp- 
son on tenterhooks by continually turning towards 
him, and snapping his jaws in vicious mimicry of 
that young lady’s prattle. 

Curiously enough, the only unpaired member of 
the Club was Strang, who might reasonably have 
been expected to annex a neighbouring lawyer’s or 
doctor’s daughter: indeed, Finch had prophesied 
some such dreary provincial. 

During the first part of the dinner he had sub- 
mitted to a good deal of raillery on the subject; 
Desmond — who could see little of his partner, ex- 
cepting a white shoulder, her whole attention ap- 
parently engrossed by Gale on her farther side — 
and Finch both chaffing him unmercifully ; till Simp- 
son interfered : partly actuated by a quick glance 
of sympathy which he observed Lydia Strang flash 
across the table towards her brother; a piece of by- 
play which, for no special reason, reminded him of 
Mrs. Reannie; and started him wondering if the 
young lawyer had set his affections — or ambitions 
— on the owner of Fountains. For, whatever the 
reason might be, he now remembered that Strang 
1 14 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


had never made even a pretence of having invited 
any guest of his own. 

The conversation now swung from one side of the 
table to the other; then eddied round Finch and his 
partner, who had attacked the tenets of the Club with 
some spirit. 

“ After all,” protested Finch, “marriage is only a 
habit. Why, I’ve heard you, yourself, say: — ‘the 
sort of people who marry — ’or, ‘ the sort of people 
who don’t marry.’ ” 

“How can one make a habit of what may only 
happen once in a lifetime?” 

“Oh, that’s just bad luck; never to get a chance 
to apply one’s experiences. But one must hope for 
the best — ” 

“After all, there ’re more lives than one,” put in 
some one. 

“What’s the good of that?” laughed the widow. 
“It’s palpably a case of gather your rosebuds while 
you may. For in heaven there is ‘neither marrying 
nor giving in marriage.’ ” 

“And yet that’s the very place where we’re told 
that marriages are made!” retorted Finch. “No 
wonder that they ’re a failure — palpably the work of 
amateurs.” 

“Oh, I don’t know; they may judge by past ex- 
periences. Think of the spirit of Henry the Eighth, 
for instance — he ought to know something about 
it,” put in Miss Fane. 

“My dear, as if he’d be there,” tittered Netta. , 
H5 


SIMPSON 


“Well, I hope there’ll be some people who are n’t 
quite — quite all that they ought to be; or what will 
you all find to talk about?” said Kirkland, with his 
quiet sneer. 

“The scandalous fact that our heavenly neigh- 
bours are not married. Oh! there’s sure to be scan- 
dal ; that ’s saf e enough : why, even at Long I lkley — ’ ’ 
began Finch. 

“Oh, you people are the scandal here,” laughed 
Julie. 

“There you are! We ’re living in the heaven-like 
state of single bliss and yet we’re traduced. That 
proves the truth of my contention.” 

“Well, if you judge by this little Arcadia. The 
things I ’ve heard since I came here ! Scandals? Why, 
I could make a whole library of novels out of it,” 
remarked Desmond. 

“Beginning with an autobiography,” flashed 
round the girl in yellow. 

“Dangerous sort of place, the country,” put in 
Banks, with jovial melancholy. “One gets so beastly 
sentimental. It’s the sort of place to fall in love in 
— if one did n’t know better. But once bit, twice 
shy — eh, what?” And he sighed stupendously. 

“Speak for yourself,” laughed Finch. “I’m ready 
to fall in love any day of my life. It’s the most gor- 
geous exercise, as long as you keep your head suffi- 
ciently to’enjoy your own gyrations; once you begin 
to get giddy, the fun’s over.” 

“After all,” said Desmond, impelled by a desire 
116 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


to hurt, “the delight of falling in love simply is n’t 
in it with the delight of falling out again : of feeling 
one’s time ’s one’s own, really enjoying the taste of a 
good cigar.” 

“ But, after all, what would life be without love?” 
sighed the artist girl. 

“It wouldn’t be at all,” remarked Kirkland 
bluntly; “love being — as some wiseacre tersely 
puts it — merely a glamour cast by nature to ensure 
the perpetuation of the species.” 

“ I think that ’s a very nasty idea,” remarked Miss 
Fane coldly: half rose and glanced, through a haze of 
smoke, down the dessert-littered table to where the 
widow was sitting, with her head very close to Finch’s 
shoulder. If she did not know her place well enough 
to make the move, some one else must do it; they 
could not sit there all night; and Miss Fane herself 
was second only by the accident of having been more 
particular than the widow could ever have been — as 
she well knew. Besides, she wanted to have Simp- 
son to herself; he was undoubtedly drifting, and 
conversation of this sort was not likely to bring him 
back. 

“ Don’t you think it would be lovely to have coffee 
out of doors?” Here she rose definitely and nodded 
across the table to Julie. “ Come, Miss Cartwright, I 
can’t have all these cynics corrupting you.” 

“ One would think I was a pat of butter,” muttered 
the girl, “ready to be contaminated by any breath.” 
And she bent, fumbling for her gloves beneath the 
ii 7 


SIMPSON 


table. Then, as she rose — her face a little flushed, 
not so much from the effort of stooping as from the 
curious fact that her hand and Van Rennen’s had 
both chosen the same place in which to grope — she 
gave a little exclamation of amazement. 

“Oh !” Her gaze was full on the doorway ; and as 
the other guests followed it they saw that a strange 
woman was standing in the open space, one hand still 
on the handle. 

“ I’m sorry I’m late,” she remarked calmly, and 
dropping a shawl from her head advanced into the 
room ; stood for a moment scanning the amazed com- 
pany, and then laughed. “I heard that there was 
one lady short and I thought I would oblige.” 

“Now, young woman!” Jervis, very red in the 
face, had his hand upon her arm, but she jerked it 
free, swept him back and moved into the full circle 
of light which hung round the dining-table. 

“ No, don’t trouble — I don’t need no introducing 
— Merwin Smith — one of The Smiths — is my 
name.” And here she dropped a mocking curtsy; 
while her laughing dark eyes swept the double row of 
guests, who had risen and stood staring, with their 
napkins in their hands. “ Now, tell me, which of you 
two gentlemen is it as wants a mate?” 

Finch, talking it all over afterwards, declared that, 
from a human, as well as from an artistic, point of 
view, he had never seen anything finer than the girl 
looked at that moment. For she had advanced a lit- 
tle into the room, and stood — in the full circle of 
118 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


light — backed by the picture of the Early Victorian 
maiden in white muslin — with her deep-breasted 
figure drawn to its full height, her rounded throat 
thrown back; a thread of white teeth showing be- 
tween her full lips, parted on the edge of a smile : her 
whole appearance so vital that even Julie Cart- 
wright’s fresh face paled to mere dollishness. 

“Please, sir,” began Jervis, with an appealing 
eye in Simpson’s direction: “the young woman was 
in before we knew where we was. All the doors open 
and all; and I busy over the coffee-tray. I hope, 
sir — ” 

“Leave her alone — clear out, Jervis. It’s just 
what we wanted. A fillip — the something different 
that makes life worth living! Madam, I drink to 
your health.” Finch’s voice was high with excite- 
ment as he lifted his glass and bent across the table 
— then, half turning, caught the artist girl’s eye : — 
“God! what a picture it would make! eh? Compo- 
sition, light, colour — the whole caboodle.” 

He was right. The other women, in their light 
evening dresses, had — all excepting Lilian Fane, 
who stood rather stiffly by Simpson’s side, her face 
set in an expression of hard obstinacy — sunk back 
upon their chairs, half laughing, half embarrassed: 
glancing from one to another, as if in doubt what to 
do. Finch watching them felt that he hated unde- 
cided women : came to the conclusion that their flesh 
tints were opaque and dull with too much indoor 
life; that they were artificial through and through; 

119 


SIMPSON 


showed less promise of life in all their bare expanse of 
breast than there was in that one glimpse of a rounded 
throat above the knotted handkerchief. Desmond’s 
old sweetheart, immediately in front of him, whom 
he had admired in her pale yellow draperies, — now 
half turned with one arm thrown over the back of 
her chair, — appeared even sickly : should never have 
chosen such a colour. 

Julie, alone, leant forward and stared with frank 
delight. “It’s one of the gipsies from Long Ilkley,” 
she muttered over her shoulder to Van Rennen — 
“they’ve been camped there for a week. What a 
pity she ’s so late ! ” — her girlish voice rose high with 
excitement. “Oh, Mr. Simpson, do ask her to sit 
down — let ’s have some more fruit and things. 
Let’s have coffee here. Oh, of course” — here she 
clapped her hands with delight — “she’s Mr. 
Strang’s guest. There, Mr. Strang, you need not feel 
out of it any more.” 

With an odd feeling that it was all of a piece with 
the place, Simpson bowed across the table. “I be- 
lieve, as far as any one can be host at a gathering such 
as this, I am he. And in the name of all our guests” 
— his blue eyes were twinkling, but he spoke with 
that rather old-fashioned courtesy which always 
made Julie declare him “a dear” — “I venture to 
hope that you will join us in a glass of wine.” 

Suddenly the girl crimsoned. She had entered the 
room with reckless defiance, which might have been 
the result of a bet — for the whole village had talked. 

120 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


of the dinner, and the gipsies easily gathered all 
there was to be known. Had she been taken by the 
shoulder and forcibly ejected, she would have fought 
like a wildcat, but she would not have been embar- 
rassed as she was at Simpson’s courtesy; and with a 
loud laugh she had half turned, as if to beat a retreat, 
when Desmond’s pale little lady rose and caught her 
by the hand. 

“ Come — you must sit down with us now. Will 
you sit by me? Harry, do give her your chair — you 
and Mr. Kirkland can share.” In her excitement and 
kindly concern she had spoken quite naturally to her 
old love, and Desmond’s eyes caught hers, as he rose, 
with an eager look which sent the blood eddying over 
her face and neck, till she almost rivalled the gipsy in 
colour. 

For a moment the stranger hung back, hesitating 
while her eyes swept the table. “ There’s a rightful 
mate for me, an’ it’s him I ’ll sit by.” Her assurance 
had returned, and she spoke with all the arrogance of 
her race, — while her eyes rested full upon Strang, 
who flushed uneasily beneath her glance, — then 
moved round the table. 

Halfway Finch tipped back his chair — with that 
flushed, excited glance which with him meant the 
intoxication, not of wine but of a new face — and, 
quite forgetful of the pretty widow, caught at her 
hand. 

“Sit by me — ” 

“ Not I ! ” with a sharp movement the gipsy jerked 
121 


SIMPSON 

herself free. “ Love's light come, light go with such 
as you, my honey.” 

Netta Stringer was twittering something in Kirk- 
land’s ear when he turned his shoulder on her with a 
brusque movement, and leaning over the rail of his 
chair spoke along the back of the others in some 
strange language. But the girl merely answered back, 
laughingly, in the same tongue: shook her head, and 
moving on stopped beside Strang, who was fiddling 
in an embarrassed fashion with the fruit skins on 
his plate, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

“Come, mate,” she said, “make room. Out of 
that, poppet ” ; and she flicked at young Cartwright’s 
cheek with the back of her hand. Then, as the boy 
rose and tendered her his chair, she sat down, folded 
her arms upon the table, and peered round into 
Strang’s averted face. “Come,” she commanded, 
her voice deep with all the deliberate witchery of 
womanhood. 

Slowly, as though acting against his own will, with 
a look almost of disgust on his narrow, ascetic face, 
Strang turned. 

In a moment the gipsy’s dark eyes caught his pale 
ones, while Finch, watching him with rather cruel 
malice, saw that his hand, which lay on the table, 
shook. 

“Well?” cried Julie, breaking the somewhat op- 
pressive silence. 

“Well?” mocked the gipsy; deliberately releasing 
Strang’s glance with a little gesture of irritation. 

122 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


“We want you to tell us things. Of course you can. 
About the future — and ourselves. Mr. Simpson, 
have you any cards ? Let ’s cross her hand with silver ! 
Please — please. You will tell us if we get the cards, 
won’t you?” she went on, leaning forward with 
clasped hands. “ I do — I do so want to know.” 

“I’m not that sort. We Smiths don’t need the 
cards. We see too plain — the past an’ the future 
too — too plain — ” For a moment her glance grew 
sombre as she lifted a glass of champagne which 
some one had poured out for her, and held it to the 
light. “ In this — in the light on running water — in 
your own faces. La! La! Why don’t you curtain 
your faces instead of your windows: hide away the 
thoughts of you, in place of the letters and such 
like, that you can leave at home safe under lock an’ 
key?” 

Here she tossed off the glass of wine, and nodded 
portentously: her full scarlet lips pressed close to- 
gether. “I could tell you now — it would frighten 
you if I was to tell you all I can read in your 
faces.” 

“Tell me — do tell me.” Julie was leaning for- 
ward, suddenly solemn; her eyes deep with the eter- 
nal wonder of a girl on the brink of her first love 
affair. 

“Shake your hawk free from his hood an’ tassel. 
Make him try his wings — he’ll be off: but he’ll 
hark back to your heart, pretty child,” said the gipsy 
lightly : then let her eyes range round the table with 
123 


SIMPSON 


a word for each; laughing, scornful, or tender. 
Blurring over Desmond and his lady, with some indis- 
tinguishable talk of a ‘‘tall red horse”: promising 
Simpson — with a long meaning glance — his heart’s 
desire: Banks, the curing of the malady he loved: 
Gale, high success and long sorrow: Van Rennen, a 
nut-brown wife: returning at last to Strang, who 
again averted his face, turning as far as possible 
away from her ; too innately conventional to be any- 
thing but ill at ease in such queer company. 

“An’ there’s you — ” she began, and hesitated, 
peering round at his averted face : then jerked herself 
upright with sudden irritation. “Look at me!” she 
said, turning sideways, sitting bolt upright in her 
chair: “how can I tell you what I may see in your 
eyes unless you look? Look at me — ! God, man ! do 
you think I ’ll blight you? 

“You’ve been worshipping at a star,” she went 
on as his unwilling eyes once more met hers. “But 
you’ve dropped to earth now; an’ the earth ’ull 
hold you against all; an’ you ’ll never not be free — 
free as you have been — any more.” 

For a moment she paused; then, leaning forward, 
spoke again, with a curious air of concentrated pas- 
sion. “ But there ’s joy with the terror o’ it. For your 
veins will run wine that have run water. An’ all the 
pain an’ the glory o’ love be yours. An’ a woman’s 
eyes be your hell, an’ a woman’s breast be your 
heaven. An’ there ’ll be a heart o’ flame against your 
heart. An’ days o’ longing, and nights o’ passion, 
124 


THE FIRST CLUB DINNER 


such as the like o' you seldom know. An* then — ” 
With a sudden movement she flung to her feet, 
her face white, her eyes full of tears, and caught at 
the glass which young Cartwright had refilled : — 
“Here’s to life an’ love, an’ the death o’ love — an’ 
the pale flower that withers with it,” she said, and 
drained the wine: pushed back her chair; then 
stood for a moment, regarding them all with a sort of 
savage scorn. 

“ You ’re like puppets,” she said. “Tricked out by 
fashion, dancing to a tune other folks pipe, while luck 
twirls the string. But there’s One as guides the 
stars, and they guide the fingers as set the strings a- 
twirling. An’ it’s by them we gipsy folk guide our 
way. We — only we!” she added with a splendid 
arrogance. “ He knows, an’ we know. He laughs, an’ 
we laugh. When the thread ’s twisted tight enough, 
it untwists all over again, an’ you’re back at your 
same old tricks — while we go on beneath the stars. 
By Christ! It’s only a sort o’ chance for the like o’ 
you, whether you ’re in with the twisting or the un- 
twisting. The Almighty don’t care — till time comes 
to put out his hand and cut the thread. Then, where 
are you, never having danced on your own? There ’s 
one here as follows a star, an’ will reach it — but 
only one — ” Here her eyes rested on Simpson — 
next to Banks the most unromantic figure of the 
whole party — with a look of friendly interest and 
understanding. “ But for the rest — it’s like him,” 
— and she jerked her head in Strang’s direction: 

125 


SIMPSON 


“ follow for a while, an’ then fail. Not that I blame — 
I who stand to gain! Garn, it’s all chance and folly. 
I wish ye luck, but wishing o’ mine won’t bring it. 

“I thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Suddenly 
her voice dropped into the half-whining, half-defiant 
gipsy twang. “ I thank you for your wine, an’ your 
welcome. Those as are good to gipsy folk are good to 
themselves. An’ now I’ll wish you good-night an’ 
good luck; till what is left o’ you meets this night 
come a year.” 

With a sweeping movement she pulled her scarlet 
shawl up round her shoulders, dragged it into a pent- 
house over her head; then bent, whispered from 
beneath it into Strang’s ear, swung round, and was 
gone. 


CHAPTER XI 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP DURING WHICH 
THE MILLIONAIRE’S SON IS PUT THROUGH HIS PACES 

“Where are you going?” 

As Simpson’s guests trooped out of the dining- 
room Julie had run down the steps — Van Rennen 
at her heels — and was steering her way, with the 
dexterity of long practice, among the narrow flagged 
paths of the Italian garden. 

“Oh, hang it all!” The young man’s voice was 
sharp with irritation as he stumbled and barked his 
shins against the stone margins. “Look here! hold 
on for a moment, I ’ve something to say to you.” 

“I know.” Julie’s voice floated back to him with 
the scent of stocks and verbenas, broken as she 
doubled and turned. “That’s why I ’m going on — 
follow and they flee — flee and they follow.” 

“Minx!” muttered Van Rennen; blundered over 
another sharp corner and swore. 

“ Make haste, or you ’ll never catch me up.” The 
girl’s voice was decidedly farther away. 

“ Don’t you want to — Oh, confound it all! those 
beastly box bushes seem everywhere, that’s the 
fourth I ’ve crashed into.” 

“Of course, I want to — to — ” mocked Julie. 

127 


SIMPSON 


“Only I don’t want to be drilled and marshalled — 
and arranged” — the words came in jerks, as she 
negotiated corner after corner — “by that Fane 
woman. Now — run ! ” 

She broke into the open as she spoke, and sped 
across the lawn; at the farther side of which Van 
Rennen, having at last got clear of the maze of 
paths, — by the crude vandalism of striding through 
the last few beds, — ran her to ground beneath the 
chestnut tree. 

“You ’re always running away,” he complained 
rather resentfully, holding her with both arms 
pinioned. 

“It ’s not that I — I — like running,” panted 
Julie, “ but it ’s good for you — to be pursuer instead 
of the pursued. When I see the Stringer person look- 
ing at you in that ‘ come hither ’ way, I feel I want to 
run and run and run, and make you run.” 

“But supposing I did n’t? ” 

“Supposing!” Julie gave a contemptuous sniff. 

“Well, anyhow, I’ve got you now — no more 
bolting round corners — and mean to have it out 
with you.” 

“That ’s precisely my intention.” 

“Then why run?” 

“ Because, my sweet child, — apart from the rea- 
son I have already stated, — if I had not desired the 
pleasure of your company, I should have simply 
stayed with the others. But now I’m going to sit 
down.” She suited the action to the words, and 
128 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


pulled aside her muslin skirts to make room for Van 
Rennen on a bench which stood beneath the chestnut 
tree: the very place where Jervis had announced her 
coming, less than a couple of months earlier. 

“And, thank goodness, though I’m dressed Early 
Victorian, I’m not Early Victorian,” she went on 
calmly: “so I can say, 'Spit it out and get it over.’ 
You have your say first, then I ’ll have mine. Now 
go ahead.” 

“Well, first of all, I love you. You know that.” 

“Guessed it.” 

“Always have, ever since we had tea together on 
the doorstep.” 

“Is that all? Is it my turn?” 

“ No, it ’s not. I want you to marry me as soon as 
possible, say in a week. There ’s nothing to make any 
delay about. I ’ve got enough” — he hesitated and 
grinned — “enough stuff for us to rub along on. 
And I’ll do anything — anything in the world to 
make you happy: we’ll travel — go everywhere 
you ’ve ever wanted to go, do everything you ’ve ever 
wanted to do. I know I’m not much of a sort of 
chap — but there it is — ” 

“You say that as if it was rather a recommenda- 
tion. Is that all?” 

“Well — yes.” Van Rennen’s voice sounded flat. 
He knew there were endless things he might have 
said in his own favour, endless pleas he might have 
put forward; but for the life of him he could not 
think of anything further. 

129 




SIMPSON 

“Then it’s my turn.’' 

“ I suppose so.” 

“Well, I ’ve noticed that you say you love me, but 
you don't enquire if I could love you — seem to take 
it for granted. I suppose that’s the millionaire man- 
ner.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, you know what I mean! It’s all been great 
fun. You pretending that you could just afford to 
keep a car: but could n’t afford a chauffeur — think- 
ing that awfully poor! Never minding how much 
petrol we used : getting fresh tyres without turning 
a hair — oh, shockingly poor! Trying to make me 
believe that Mr. Simpson let you stay at the Club 
because you acted as Secretary. You’re a very poor 
actor, my child, or else you are grossly ignorant of 
the lives of working-people, for you never even 
attempted to account for the fact that your time 
seemed entirely your own. Besides that, though you 
always wore the same suit — excepting on Sundays 
— I ’ve counted eleven different pairs of boots and 
shoes : while if you wished to hide the fact that you 
changed your shirt every day you should have worn 
plain white, not ones with little patterns.” 

“O Lord!” groaned Van Rennen. 

“No, my dear, my sweet child,” she went on 
smoothly, with a patronising tilt of her small chin : 
“you’re that unfortunate creature, the son of a 
millionaire : I even doubt if you ’ve ever been licked 
at school.” 

130 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


“I’m getting it now.” 

“ It ’s for your good. Well, it comes to this : you ’re 
a parasite — and you expect me to become another, 
on the principle that little fleas have smaller fleas, 
etc. No, no, I frivol with you, but I work too. I ’ve 
been working all the time: and at the end of the 
summer vac I ’m going up to Girton, and I ’m going 
to qualify to be something and do something. And 
if I marry I want a mate ; not an ingenious mechani- 
cal toy.” 

Van Rennen rose with rather a white face, and 
stood before her, his hands deep in his pockets. 
“Then I suppose I’m turned down — better clear 
out, since you don’t care for me. Though you’re 
quite right; I am a rotter.” 

With a little cry Julie put out her hand and caught 
at his arm. “ No, no ! don’t look like that. If I did n’t 
care — Oh, Archie, don’t be an ass! Don’t you see 
if I did n’t care I should n’t worry about you, just 
say 'No, thank you,’ quite politely. But it is that I 
do care so awfully, I want there to be something 
more to care about.” She was standing, very close to 
him, evidently unaware of the fact that — in a sud- 
den renewal of hope — his arm had found its way 
round her waist. “We’re so young — life’s so won- 
derful: and marriage seems such a tremendous 
thing, somehow.” 

“Well, you want me to do something tremen- 
dous.” 

“ But I don’t want you to risk failure. Have you 

131 


SIMPSON 


ever done anything, managed anything, put any- 
thing through completely as your own?” 

“ I ’ve never had the chance/* 

“And yet you want to manage me and my life, 
and our children’s lives. For we’ll have to have 
children.” 

“Lord, yes!” 

“Boys, lots of boys — Do you know what I’d 
like? — To open the nursery door and hear them all, 
making a furious noise — and then just one girl, 
to keep them from being too barbaric. What larks 
we’d have!” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Van Rennen spoke medita- 
tively : “ a girl first. She ’d be company for you, a sort 
of help — besides, girls are simpler to start with.” 

“Are they, though! That’s all you know. No, I 
must be ever — ever so much older before I ’d dare 
to even begin managing a girl. Anyhow, I don’t 
know that I ’m going to marry you at all ; at any rate, 
not till you stop — ” 

“Stop what?” 

“ Kissing the back of my neck for one thing — and 
for the other being spoon-fed.” 

“Sit down and let’s talk it over,” suggested Van 
Rennen coaxingly : — “and if you ’ll only let me keep 
my arm here my thoughts will flow ever so much 
more freely.” 

“No — it’s like the use of a stimulant. — Now, 
to be serious. Are you really contented?” 

“No,” answered Van Rennen honestly: “never 
132 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


have been. That ’s why I came down here to try and 
think out a way. But I thought if we tried together, 
— if you’d only help me.” 

“That’s what I don’t want to do. I ’d always be 
remembering it against you : I ’m that sort of person. 
Some one’s got to hold the reins ; and if it was n’t you 
it would be me ; and I ’d become unbearable — un- 
bearable, I tell you ! But how can you guide me if 
you ’ve never guided yourself — never done anything 
for yourself — just sat still and been fed, like What’s- 
his-name by the ravens? I might pretend for a time, 
but I could n’t go on pretending you were boss.” 
“You ’ve struck it there. But what ’s to be done ? ’ ’ 
Julie crossed her knees, propped one elbow upon 
them, and cupping her chin in her hand, gazed out 
across the lawn — where the rising moon cast a vast, 
gently stirring shadow of the tree beneath which they 
sat — while, with her spare hand, she ticked off, fin- 
ger by finger, the points which had to be considered. 

“Firstly, you must make money, because without 
economic independence you can do nothing and be 
nothing,” she said; so glibly that Van Rennen sus- 
pected a quotation, though he was wise enough to 
hold his tongue. “Secondly, you mustn’t do any- 
thing that will take the bread out of another man’s 
mouth. Thirdly, as your parents gave you no pro- 
fession, did n’t even apprentice you to a trade, — 
think what culpable neglect that would be among 
the poorer classes, think what Dad would find to say 
on the subject, — you are entitled to something to 
133 


SIMPSON 


start you. These are what you may call the causes. 
Fourthly, — and here begin the effects, — I ’ll marry 
you, if we’re still both of the same mind, when you 
earn enough to keep yourself in independence.” 

“Then you do love me?” 

“At present: there’s no knowing — be quiet, you 
put me out — where did I get to? Oh, fifthly — 
fifthly,” she waved a small fourth finger vaguely in 
the air. “ Fifthly, you may kiss me if you like. Yes 
— I do love you — ” the stifled admission came 
somewhat unwillingly. Then with a rush: — “Do 
you think I ’d have played about with you as I have 
done if I did n’t? Love you? You dear simpleton! 
I love you so awfully I ’d wait to the end of my life.” 
She drew herself momentarily free and caught his 
face between her small brown hands, while her own 
grew momentarily grave. 

“ My dear, it ’s so gorgeous to be so young, to be in 
love. And I want it to go on getting more and more 
gorgeous ; not to spoil it by gourmandising : snatching 
at big things we’re too raw for!” 

“But now” — here she drew back again: “that’s 
enough of kissing, let’s be practical. How much 
money have you got?” 

“Oh, I draw on the governor — ” 

“Draw on the governor, ugh! you make me ill! 
How much have you got of your own, I mean, abso- 
lutely your own at the present moment?” 

“ Do you mean free so that I can get at it?” 

“Of course.” 


i34 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


“Well, about five hundred in the bank. But, of 
course, they've stocks and things, that are practi- 
cally— " 

“No, that ’s enough. My godfather ’s going to give 
me two hundred for my first year at Girton and to 
get me started ; after that I ’ll have to make my own 
way; unless I want to come whining home to bread 
and milk and white muslins. Dad’s a dear; and 
of course Mother — well, she is Mother, but we 
can’t live together. Archie! Isn’t it odd? Every 
one rather expects married people, who have chosen 
each other, to quarrel ; and yet they think that par- 
ents and children, who have n’t chosen each other 
and don’t possess a single idea in common, ought to 
be able to live together for ever and ever in unity. 
After all, my father’s only my father because he 
happened to fall in love with my mother; I was n’t 
consulted.” 

“That’s a rum way of looking at it.” 

“And that’s not all. I’m not only supposed to 
love my father and mother, but my uncles and 
aunts. There’s Aunt Clara — you’ve never seen 
her — she’s not a woman, she.’s a catastrophe! I 
don’t believe that’s original — have a sort of idea 
I heard it somewhere: anyhow, she’s the mater’s 
eldest sister, and because my father fell in love with 
my mother, I ’m supposed to love his relations-in- 
law whom he hates.” 

“Thank Heaven, I haven’t got any relations, 
barring my father and mother — I believe you ’d 
135 


SIMPSON 


simply love the mater, Julie: somehow you're like 
her in character. They married when they were 
awfully poor. You know he made everything he’s 
got off his own bat ; and she used to do all sorts of 
things. I remember she told me she once made a 
suit of clothes for the governor, and they looked 
magnificent, only he could n’t sit down in them.” 

“Oh, the darling!” 

“They lived in a little tin-roofed shanty, quite 
close to the mines where he made his pile: and she 
used to walk about doing her cooking, and washing, 
and all, with a baby over one arm — there were five 
of them before me.” 

“But where are they? I didn’t know you had 
any brothers or sisters.” 

“ Neither I have. They all died out there — except 
one which just lived for them to bring it home. She 
said she never had enough to eat and was never off 
her feet, and worn to a shadow; you would n’t think 
it now ; she’s awfully fat and looks tremendously 
prosperous. Then some years later — when they 
were rich enough to have done anything in the world 
for all five — I was born ; wretched little me all 
alone! And, of course, she thought every moment I 
was going to die too; I suppose that’s the reason 
I was what you call spoon-fed.” 

“I’m sorry — I am sorry, old boy; I had no right 
to say that.” Julie’s hand caught his contritely. 

“You had every right, and you were right. Now, 
look here, I’ve been thinking, perhaps more than 
136 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 

you’ve given me credit for. Not so much the last 
few weeks; because — though you do imagine I ’m 
so cocksure — I was in a beastly funk of losing you. 
Besides, I could n’t face the thought of going away.” 

“ There’s lots to do in England,” said Julie, hedg- 
ing rather weakly. 

“Not for me: — you see I’d be always getting 
up against the chap who’d got to live by it. But 
Kirkland has got a scheme on — and I believe I 
could get a finger in it for what I ’ve got.” 

“ Central Africa, I bet.” Julie’s tone was gloomily 
prophetic. 

“No — Siberia. Or rather on the Trans-Baikal 
part of the Trans-Siberian Railway.” 

“Big game, I suppose?” Julie spoke rather con- 
temptuously, but her heart sank with a feeling that 
Central Africa could never have chilled her ardour 
quite so much as the mere mention of the dread word 
Siberia. 

“No, gold. Kirkland heard about it when he was 
in South America. There was a fellow there who has 
an uncle, the owner of a large estate near Petrowski 
Zavod, — at least, that’s the station, — exactly be- 
tween Chita and Irkutsk. He had been fossicking 
about for ages, believing there was alluvial gold on 
the place: then, when he had spent all his money 
and grown old, he at last found it — with no means 
left of working it decently, poor beggar. He got 
started somehow on borrowed capital — but had n’t 
enough to keep it going.” 

137 


SIMPSON 


“ I never knew there was gold in Siberia.’ * 

“Any amount: mostly in eastern Siberia, from 
the river Chikoi along the Schist Belt, and right up 
to the borders of Mongolia.” 

“Archie! how do you know it all? ” 

“Oh, I’ve been mugging it up. Kirkland has 
maps and things, but of course he never thought 
of me really going into it. No one ever does think of 
my taking anything seriously.” 

“Even I? Oh, Archie, what a conceited pig I’ve 
been! And I did n’t even know that there was gold 
in Siberia!” 

“Well, why should you? — you’ll learn that at 
Girton.” For the life of him Van Rennen could not 
resist the thrust. “Well — there are three other 
fellows in it — a German Jew named Schwartz; and 
another man, a friend of Banks’s, called Hilton, and 
Banks himself. They don’t much want any out- 
siders till they see how it’s going to pan out. They 
have only the nephew’s word for it and some letters 
he had, from the old man, which give certain de- 
tails and show he ’s ready to sell. But Kirkland be- 
lieves it ’s genuine, and he ’s going out in another 
fortnight to inspect the place ; you know he ’s been 
all through the mill as mining engineer, and railway 
contractor, and the Lord knows what, before he took 
to this exploring business. Really, he ’s only hanging 
on till he can find another fellow whom he can abso- 
lutely trust to go with him, so as to have a witness — 
and some one left to come back and tell the tale if 
138 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


one pegs out. The other three have no time, they ’ve 
too many affairs on hand ; and anyhow they ’re typi- 
cal city men. I know he’d jump at me.” 

“What would it lead to?” 

“Well, if they took me into it, and the governor 
lent a hand, it would mean a certain number of 
preference shares, and a start of my own. Or I 
might stay there — or go back after a run home to 
report : they ’ll need some one on the spot. I ’ve been 
mugging up the language, too.” 

“What is it?” 

“Russian.” 

“Would it have to be soon ?” 

“The sooner the better. You see it’s June now, 
and there ’s nothing much doing in the winter : any- 
how, I ’d be back towards the end of November if I 
went. What shall I do? Look here, I ’ll leave it with 
you, little girl.” 

For a few moments Julie sat silent, staring in 
front of her, her chin buried deeply in her hand, her 
lips set firmly in an endeavour to hide the disgrace- 
ful fact that they trembled : while — as she battled 
furiously with the lump in her throat — a proces- 
sion of at least one hundred and seventy days — 
more, because every month between June and 
November, excepting September, owned thirty-one 
days — paraded with leaden feet through her mind. 
Days in which there would be no motoring, no light- 
hearted companionship ; days of watching the posts, 
of starting at every ring in case it should be the 
139 


SIMPSON 


telegraph boy; of being horribly grown-up, and not 
being able to flirt at all — because it would n’t be 
fair. And then, on the other hand, the alternative. 
How easy to say “stay”: to have a grand wedding, 
lovely frocks and presents ; to go on the Continent — 
to Florence, to Venice, to all the dream places: to 
be really a “married lady” able to order every one 
about. And all within a few weeks’ time. What an 
astounding thing a girl’s life was, that such a choice 
should be possible! And how easy! Just that one 
little word, like the touch of a fairy wand. He had 
said he would leave it in her hands ; it was for her to 
choose; and the word trembled on her lips. 

But for all that, she did not say it. For through 
all her longing, her girlish vanity, her dire prognos- 
tication of what might happen, how he might be 
killed, and how his mother would look on her as a 
murderess, she heard her own voice — or the voice 
of some other subconscious self — say quite calmly, 
and with what almost sounded like indifference : — 

“Of course, you must go! It’s your chance — it 
would be wicked to throw it away. Of course, of 
course, only — ” Then somehow that other self — 
that wise, practical self — incontinently retired, 
having egged her on till no retreat was possible. 
And she found that she had risen and was clinging 
with trembling hands to either lapel of his coat, 
drawing back a little because she simply did n’t 
dare to let him kiss her. “Only, do — do take care. 
And come back, and don’t forget; because I love 
140 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY COURTSHIP 


you so frightfully : and it ’s so hard to let you go ; and 
— and — ” here she was sobbing in his arms, having 
won the point for which she fought, and — woman- 
like — capitulated on all others. But after a very 
little while, she again thrust him away from her. 

“ Now I must go home — not there, not back to 
the house; I can’t face all those people. No, I don’t 
want you to come with me, Archie; I want to be 
alone, it ’s only five minutes through the shrubbery. 
Apologise to Mr. Simpson for me; and tell him, be- 
cause he ’s a dear. But don’t tell any one else. Good- 
night — good-night, my boy, my darling boy.” 
And for a moment she strained close to him — her 
white little face upraised in the moonlight; then 
broke away: while young Van Rennen stood obe- 
diently still, tingling from head to foot: waited till 
the last flash of the white frock had disappeared 
amongst the trees: then turned and walked slowly 
back to the house, awed by a deeper sense of joy 
than he had ever dreamed of as possible. 

“Where’s Miss Cartwright?” The party were 
gathered in the hall, preparatory to their departure: 
Miss Stringer’s hawklike eye fixed him in a moment 
and she pounced. “What have you done with Miss 
Cartwright?” 

“She’s gone home — asked me to apologise to 
you, Simpson,” announced the young man, without 
the faintest attempt at an excuse. “Good-bye, Mrs. 
D’Esterre: yes, it has been jolly, has n’t it? Is your 
car here?” 


SIMPSON 


“What, without her cloak ?” pursued Netta 
Stringer shrilly. “What an extraordinary way of 
behaving! We thought you were both lost,” she 
went on. Then, finding that she was addressing the 
air, for Van Rennen was apparently engrossed in 
wrapping up Finch’s pretty widow — acquiescing 
in her laughing commands to come and see her: “To 
keep Agar from boring me to death!” — relapsed 
into silence; with a shrug of her shoulders and a 
muffled exclamation of “Hoyden!” — which might 
have been meant for the widow, though it was curi- 
ously inapplicable. 


CHAPTER XII 


VAN RENNEN ARRANGES FOR HIS OWN BANISHMENT 
TO SIBERIA 

The Honourable and Reverend Algernon was 
horrified at the engagement; or rather, not at the 
engagement, but at the terms of it — the deferred 
consummation. It was tempting Providence for 
young people to marry imprudently, but it was 
tempting it still more not to marry when all the 
conditions were so — “H’m, eminently desirable, ” 
as the fond father declared : enquiring of his daugh- 
ter if she remembered that she possessed two bro- 
thers and four sisters younger than herself: as if, 
as Julie said, it was the sort of thing that anyone 
could possibly forget. 

“As for this — this wild-goose chase after a fabu- 
lous gold mine, — my dear Archibald, — you will 
permit me to call you that? Surely, such things 
might be left to — well, ordinary people,” he urged, 
when Van Rennen interviewed him in state, the 
morning after the dinner party. 

“But I am a very ordinary person, I’m afraid. 
Besides, Julie hates a waster,” protested the young 
man, reddening. 

“I’m sorry to say that my daughter has got hold 
143 


SIMPSON 


of some very nonsensical, highfalutin’ ideas. From 
whom I don’t know; not from me, I assure you. I 
am perfectly ready to do my duty in that state of life 
to which God has been pleased to call me, and I 
expect Julie to be the same. We are all servants of 
the Lord, Archibald; but you have your own duties 
relevant to your own rank in life. And let me re- 
mind you that ‘ they also serve who only stand and 
wait.’ ” 

“That,” remarked Julie — who, with that total 
absence of nice feeling evinced by the younger gen- 
eration, had entered the room to see how they were 
“getting on,” as she expressed it — “is bad both 
for mind and muscle. We ’re going to wait, but we ’re 
not going to stand — or sit down over it, either. 
Are we, Archie?” And she slipped her arm into her 
lover’s. “He’s going out there to let me see what 
he’s made of. I don’t mean to marry a slacker — 
and have little slacklets for children.” 

“Julie, leave the room!” 

“All right, Dad. I’ll be in the arbour at the end 
of the garden, Archie, near where the gooseberries 
grow. I ’ve got Kirkland’s map.” And with that she 
perched on the edge of the low window-ledge, swung 
over her feet, and dropped out of sight into the gar- 
den below. 

“Marriage will sober her,” remarked her father, 
with the kindly tolerance of a man whose eldest 
daughter has just engaged herself to the only son of 
a millionaire. “She will gain in repose. And, really, 
144 


VAN RENNEN ARRANGES HIS BANISHMENT 

my dear boy, I don't quite know what to say, but 
the — the — h’m — audacity of ignorance! ‘ to the 
pure all things are pure,’ as you know: really, it 
seems only a few days since I found her looking for 
a — h’m — another little brother in the parsley 
bed.” 

“ Yes. ” Van Rennen bit his lip firmly over a widen- 
ing grin. Then he wondered if there would ever 
come a time when he would look on those few 
wonderful years, which transform a child into a man 
or woman, as “only a few days” : even ignore the fact 
that they had passed. 

“An engaged girl is left in a very awkward posi- 
tion,” continued Mr. Cartwright. “She is so en- 
grossed she allows her friends to slip, her chances to 
go. Supposing — mind, I only say supposing, but we 
are all in God’s hands — supposing anything should 
happen to you on this — h’m — this trip you con- 
template taking.” 

“Well, I believe Julie would rather that the worst 
happened than that I never did anything to prove 
myself. But as — I hope you ’ll not mind my men- 
tioning it, sir — ” his honest young face crimsoned, 
for it seemed degrading even to mention such a thing 
in connection with Julie — Julie, the frank, the free, 
the unspoilt; Julie, who had declared that five hun- 
dred pounds were quite enough to start him on an 
independent career ; — that she could always man- 
age for herself: — “As for money — of course, one 
must go into, talk over those sort of things — rotten 
145 


SIMPSON 


as it seems. You know I ’m an only child, and I shall 
get my father to settle the same on Julie as she would 
have if we were married, and anything happened 
afterwards. ” 

“And you think that Sir Abel — ?” 

“I’m sure; he always wanted me to marry a coun- 
try girl, and a lady — you know, you understand, 
that we ’re nobodies, that my father was a common 
labourer.” 

“ My dear boy, why mention painful facts like 
these? The ways of the Lord are past finding out. 
And that was gold, too, was n’t it? Very auspicious, 
very auspicious. And now to be severely practical. 
May I ask — I do not wish to appear, am not, grasp- 
ing, but the natural solicitude of a father, you will 
understand — have you any idea as to what the 
amount might be?” 

“He always said he’d settle a hundred thousand 
on my wife, if I married a girl he liked.” 

“Well, now, that is done with. A truce to this 
odious, this degrading talk of mere ways and means. 
I shall do myself the pleasure of writing to Sir Abel, 
my dear son — I may almost call you that, may n’t 
I — just in playfulness? It ’s such a charming morn- 
ing; there is such an air of youth abroad; — ‘the 
time of the singing of birds is come ’ — as Solomon 
puts it so wonderfully in his sacred songs. I shall 
write to Sir Abel at once, make a point of it. And 
now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe you will find my 
daughter in the garden ; and perhaps you will come 
146 


VAN RENNEN ARRANGES HIS BANISHMENT 

back to lunch and see my wife. At present she is 
at the midday service, which is undertaken by my 
curate, Mr. Swettingham, and which is one of her 
greatest pleasures/’ 

“I shall be delighted.” 

“That’s right! That’s right! Then I shan’t say 
good-bye, my dear, my very dear boy! I can’t tell 
you how glad — how very glad I am at the turn 
things have taken.” 

Julie was in the earwiggy little arbour at the end 
of the kitchen garden : the map, which Van Rennen 
had brought over with him, spread out on the table 
before her; covered with a sheet of tracing-paper, 
and weighted down at the farther side by a cabbage 
leaf full of ripe gooseberries. 

“ I thought you were never coming ! I picked them 
all for you; did n’t eat one. And now I’m making 
a tracing of the map, so I ’ll have a copy for my- 
self. The red are the best, those big hairy ones; if 
you just bite a tiny hole in them and squeeze 
them out into your mouth they ’re simply scrump- 
tious!” 

Van Rennen sat down and began to eat goose- 
berries in the prescribed fashion : there was no doubt 
that the big hairy red ones were good; peculiarly 
refreshing after the ordeal through which he had 
just passed. 

“There’s no one else coming!” remarked Julie 
maliciously. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

147 


SIMPSON 


“Why, there’s plenty of room on the bench — 
you’ll joggle my elbow if you get so near. Look 
there! what do you think of it?” 

“Good, but you’ve got Kerkerod too close to 
Petrowski Zavod.” 

“I know: I shifted the paper a teeny — tiny 
bit,” she confessed shamefacedly. “It seemed such 
an awful long way.” 

“Well, shift it back. It will only make you more 
anxious if you get it into your head that it ’s nearer 
than it is. Here, let me do it.” And taking both her 
hands, he first kissed them ; then — with a masterly 
air, which secretly delighted Julie — deposited them 
in her lap, and started on the drawing himself. 

“Well, what did he ask for me?” she enquired 
idly, as she leant back and watched the firm fingers, 
the neatly accomplished lettering, with dispropor- 
tionate admiration. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Why, Dad, of course! What sort of a bargain 
did he make? He banks in Heaven, you know, — 
but he loves a little flutter with his floating cash on 
earth.” 

“I don’t like to hear you talk like that.” Van 
Rennen’s voice was grave, though he was apparently 
absorbed in his map. 

“What!” Julie could hardly believe her ears; for 
never before had her devoted adorer so much as 
hinted that anything about her was not absolutely 
perfect — completely adorable. 

148 


VAN RENNEN ARRANGES HIS BANISHMENT 

“ I don’t like the way you speak about your father; 
it’s not good form.” 

“ M y dear Archie ! what should you know about — ’ ’ 
the girl paused in sheer horror at the words which 
she had found upon her lips. 

“Well, not ordinary decency, then,” put in Van 
Rennen coolly: — “which is really just as common 
in my class as in yours.” 

“You know I did n’t mean — ” 

“You know that I know that I ’m not your class: 
so what’s the good of pretending.” Van Rennen’s 
tone showed an absolutely unruffled good humour. 

“I suppose now you think that I care about you, 
you’ll begin to see all sorts of faults in me.” 

Julie’s voice was tearful. She had been awake all 
night, in a state of strained excitement, transcen- 
dental happiness ; and now — all of a sudden — 
everything seemed to have grown flat and unprofit- 
able. 

“Don’t be a duffer, Julie; how many times have 
you jumped on me? There you are!” — and he 
leant back and gazed with pride at the map. “ Now, 
when we go into the house we ’ll put a cross of red 
ink on Kerkerod, so it’ll stand out from all the rest. 
Then another red cross about twenty-eight versts 
from that — and that’s where the mine will be.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“You don’t what!” 

“ I don’t care — you don’t care. I ’ll set you free, 
you can do what you like. You need n’t go at all: 

149 


SIMPSON 


you needn’t go up to Town for the ring,” cried 
Julie, the knowledge that she was behaving like a 
spoilt baby driving her on to a fury of pretended 
indifference. “You can marry that Stringer person 
for all I care.” 

“ But I don’t want to marry that Stringer person, 
as you call her, and I do want to marry you. And I 
mean to go to Petrowski Zavod. I even mean to 
go up to Town to buy the ring: but not till to-mor- 
row, because I awfully want you to come with me 
and be introduced to my mother.” 

“ Perhaps she won’t like me either.” Julie’s voice 
was gloomy; but with the self -depreciating gloom of 
one who is “coming round.” 

“Perhaps she won’t. But the chances are ten to 
one that she will; our tastes are very much alike. 
Are you angry? Don’t waste time being angry, 
sweetheart, when we’ve only a fortnight, perhaps 
only a week together.” 

“What!” 

“Kirkland’s mad to be gone; and the sooner 
we ’re off the sooner I ’ll be back — 

“A week — only a week! Archie! I can’t bear it! 
I can’t let you go! I can’t, though I was such a pig 
to you just now. Don’t go yet — a week! A week, 
or even a fortnight ’s no time at all. Some day, 
Archie, some day, I ’ll be braver.” 

“Look here, Julie.” Van Rennen held her very 
close, raising her chin with one hand and looking 
into her eyes which were swimming in tears. “You ’re 
150 


VAN RENNEN ARRANGES HIS BANISHMENT 


not going to show the white feather yet — give up 
trying to do something with me!” 

"Of course not ! But we ’re all right as we are — 
I was mistaken, I did n’t understand. Anyhow, not 
yet, not yet, Archie.” 

"And there’s a lot for you to do: any amount,” 
went on Van Rennen, almost as if he had not heard 
her. "You’ve got to coax my mother, talk her 
round. I count on you to help me, to see me through.” 

With a sudden wrench, like a physical effort, the 
girl pulled herself together. 

"All right! I will. I promise, Archie. And I ’ll be 
awfully, terribly good. I won’t laugh at Dad, or do 
anything you don’t like — at least, more than I can 
help. There’ll be heaps of things you’ll want in 
Town. I wish I could be there to help you.” With a 
sense of infinite heroism Julie drew a little apart 
from her lover, and spoke in a briskly practical tone. 

" I wired to the mater — a hundred and twenty- 
five words, all about you ! She ’s sure to ask you to 
stay.” 

"And I’ll help you. We’ll make a list. I’ll get 
some more paper. You’ll want a saddle and long 
boots, and furs, and overalls, for the mines; and pro- 
visions and all sorts of things. We’ll make a list, 
then we’ll get Mr. Kirkland to check it. And you 
can tell him you’ll be ready in a week if he likes. 
And. — and — if I make an ass of myself — ” 

" I ’ll marry Miss Stringer — ” 

" No, you won’t. You may box my ears — or go 

151 


SIMPSON 


into a monastery — but marry that creature you 
shall not! Archie, she’s so metallic she’d tang if you 
touched her; if she broke an arm or leg, she’d have 
to be soldered together.’ * And Julie laughed rather 
hysterically. “There’s the luncheon bell, so poor 
Mother must be back from church.” 

“ Poor, — why, does n’t she like it?” 

“My sweet child, does any one like a midday 
weekly service? To toddle off to church just in the 
busiest part of the morning? Dad takes jolly good 
care not to go : hands it over to the curate, says — 
Oh, I forgot!” Here Julie drew herself up with a 
jerk. “ I thought of something awfully, screamingly 
funny to say. But I won’t say it. You see, Archie, 
I’m beginning already.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


DESMOND MAKES HIS PEACE, THROWING OVERBOARD, 
WITHOUT A SINGLE QUALM, ALL THE TENETS OF 
THE CLUB 

Desmond had achieved a few words with his lady 
while Van Rennen did his courting. It had been diffi- 
cult. There was always something elfish and elusive 
about Dorothy Sartoris; a delicately cool faculty for 
withdrawing herself, her personality, almost her 
humanity, which held others — when she so chose 
— at an immeasurable distance. Desmond had 
caught this trait in his book ; and with it the intense 
fastidiousness which might harden to narrowness, 
the icy lift of her voice when she was annoyed : the 
curious, quiet jealousy; the reserve which made — 
had she but known it — a love like his as necessary 
to her whole being as is sunshine to a plant. For, 
despite all her faults, she was capable of a passionate 
devotion: of charming generosity in greater things, 
such as — in the small — had shown itself by her 
impulsive words to the gipsy: the way in which she 
had included Desmond in her own kindly act. 

“ Harry!” The mere utterance of his name had 
set all the man’s warm Irish blood aflame. She was 
so small and tender, even her quaint, precisely 
marked faults so lovable. He had struggled des- 
153 


SIMPSON 


perately between his devotion towards his art and 
his sweetheart : might have destroyed the offending 
book and healed the breach at once — as he well 
realised. But that was beyond him ; as repugnant as 
the murder of his own flesh and blood. Somehow 
Dorothy and his work seemed to have grown antag- 
onistic. He was continually torn between the two. 
Even the division of his time had grown to be a 
difficulty — while it had never occurred to him that 
the two interests might become one ; that Dorothy’s 
intensely concentrated affection might be so managed 
as to include his work, could he once prevail on him- 
self to conquer that reserve which encompasses the 
creator, and share with her — not only the fruits 
— but the source of all his work. 

Then, in a flash, at the sound of his name had 
come an inspiration — as sudden as his conception 
of a new book. He would make her a partner in this 
business of his brain. 

The thought possessed him. “ I want to speak to 
you,” he whispered, as a general move followed the 
gipsy’s departure. 

Then, over the coffee-cups in the porch : — “Doro- 
thy, I must speak to you.” 

It had seemed so simple. But when she raised her 
grave eyes to his and enquired with icy politeness, in 
a perfectly audible tone, — “Yes, Mr. Desmond, what 
is it?” he realised the difficulty of the task he had 
set himself; sulked for a moment or so, then drew 
Simpson aside. 


154 


DESMOND MAKES HIS PEACE 


“Look here, Simmy, I want to talk to that girl 
alone; for the Lord’s sake, call off some of those 
women.” 

Simpson nodded: debated for a moment or so 
whether he would dare to take Miss Fane for a 
moonlight ramble; then changed his tactics and 
turned to Dorothy herself. 

“There’s a picture in the morning room I want 
to show you;” he said in a low voice, hoping that 
the artist — who was talking to Kirkland, with a 
roving eye and an air of listening to every one else — 
would not hear him. “Will you come and see it?” 
Hehalf- turned as the girl, a little puzzled, signified her 
assent; stood aside to let her pass; and then, appar- 
ently for the first time, observed his co-conspirator. 

“ Oh, there ’s Desmond ! He knows far more about 
it than I do. Desmond, will you take Miss Sartoris 
to see the Madonna in the morning room? I would 
like to hear your opinion of it,” he added menda- 
ciously. And turned, with a sense of infinite well- 
doing, towards Miss Strang, who was sitting alone, 
while Banks strutted and plumed himself beneath 
the mocking gaze of Finch’s widow. 

Dorothy was certainly not too encouraging. She 
felt she had been trapped: realised a conspiracy. 
But gradually she relented. And, indeed, it would 
have been difficult for any one — let alone the 
woman who loved him — to resist Desmond for 
long. He was so big, so splendidly handsome, so com- 
pletely a child. 


155 


SIMPSON 


“If you’ll only take us both together, my art and 
I as one — inseparable — and yourself as the other ; 
always two of us, never three — that odious three ! 

— and will help me, I may do great work. But if 
you are jealous of it — ” 

“ I was never jealous of it,” the little lady thawed 
enough to protest. “ But I felt out of it. It was your 
life. I was like a doll put on a shelf ; taken down to 
be dusted and played with: a best doll, a precious 
doll I allow. But like a child’s best toy, never part 
of your daily life. I ’d rather” — the difficult tears 
were in her eyes and she spoke with that sharp de- 
tachment — as if each word were a bitten-off thread 

— which she used when greatly moved, “have been 
thumped — banged on the floor, if only I might have 
been loved every day.” 

“Child, child, you were.” Desmond’s arm was 
round her by this time. “ I worshipped you — you 
know I worshipped you.” 

“That’s what I complain of: seemed to worship 
me, and yet dissected me; made a careful drawing 
of my heart and soul — Oh, no, it was no caricature, 
I won’t wrong you in that, it was true to life ! fiend- 
ishly true! — Then distributed me to the British 
Public at six shillings a copy — retail : how much 
was it wholesale, eh, Harry?” 

“I was a brute: I don’t know how I did it. ’Pon 
my soul, I don’t know how I did it. The thing grew 

— I did n’t even know that it was you : I swear I 
did n’t.” 


156 


DESMOND MAKES HIS PEACE 


“That makes it worse. If we married it would be 
our life: our children: every difference we had, every 
folly we committed.’ 1 

“No, no, you’re wrong there, Dot — ” No one 
else ever called her by that silly little name, and 
how she would have resented it if they did. “By 
Jove! I ’m cured this time; once and for all. Catch 
me using any one I know again — unless,” he added 
honestly, “a public character, or some one like that, 
whom nobody minds. Look here, my darling, — do 
you know that’s the first kiss for eight months? — 
I’ll write a book with every character absolutely 
imaginary — not a single person in it you can put 
your dear little finger on and say, — ‘ That reminds 
me of So and So’ : — just to show you I can do it.” 

“I wonder if you can.” Dorothy — standing 
with both hands on his shoulders — looked up, 
tenderly enough now, into the ardent face bent 
above her. 

“Of course I can — The second kiss! — Twenti- 
eth? Oh, nonsense. The last was like a serial, a lot 
of chapters but all one story. — Of course, I can do 
it, if I set my mind to it. And what’s more you shall 
choose me a plot : and we ’ll marry on the proceeds of 
the partnership. Come now, Dot, a plot — a plot !” 

“Wait — let me think.” The girl drew a little 
away from him, and stood, with one small foot on 
the fender. “I’ve heard lots of things : often thought 
since we ’ve been apart — even before, only I was 
afraid you’d laugh at me — ‘There’s a thing that 
157 


SIMPSON 


would make a fine plot for Harry !’” Again she 
paused, frowning: then glanced up, and catching 
sight of the calm face of the Madonna, which she 
had come to see, was reminded. 

“There was one thing — it was only an idea, a 
word or two. I don’t know what led to it. At a tea- 
party one day some one said, ‘ Odd if a man invented 
a new religion — just for the sake of making money, 
humbugging people — and then grew to believe in 
it himself.’ It seems such a little thing,” she added 
half apologetically. “ But, somehow, it struck me as 
being dramatic — possible.” 

“Dramatic! Why, it’s fine!” — cried Desmond 
excitedly. “The very words create the man — I 
seem to realise him, feel him, know him: could draw 
him to a T. By Jove, it would make a powerful 
novel ! Of course, there ’d be a girl, too, — a girl 
like—” 

“No likes.” Dorothy held up a reproving finger. 

“Well — like nobody else. But the man’s char- 
acter ’s the thing. A fine possibility there. And I can 
doit, I know I can. I feel it in me. It bites, Dot; 
somehow it bites!” 

“Well, do it,” she said: “and then — then we’ll 
talk things over.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


LADY VAN RENNEN INVESTIGATES THE AFFAIRS OF 
THE KERKEROD COMPANY: AND ARRANGES FOR 
ANOTHER AND A VERY DIFFERENT PARTNERSHIP 

For a while Fountains Court lost its character of a 
mere play-house. 

Desmond, after various flying visits to his pub- 
lishers in Town, took up his permanent quarters 
there and buried himself in his book. 

Parrifleet arrived, and was soon immersed in the 
fashioning of a service of beautifully embossed pew- 
ter finger-bowls, each set with the special birth-gems 
of the several members : deserting this to work upon 
what he called a “ring of strength” for Van Rennen 
— to whom he had taken a great fancy — set with 
the seven stones of the days of the week: the ruby, 
emerald, selenite, amethyst, onyx, turquoise, and 
agate; which, arranged in a certain fashion, — or so 
he told Julie, — protected its wearer from all possible 
danger. 

Van Rennen himself had become one of the most 
indefatigable workers. Every day he either motored 
up to London with his betrothed and — after depos- 
iting her at his mother’s house — spent hours in a 
dreary, dimly lighted office in Broad Street, discuss- 
159 


SIMPSON 


ing every detail of the Kerkerod affair with the other 
men; pored over maps and estimates with Kirkland 
in the Fountains library; or shopped with a new care 
and discrimination : even — this to his mind being a 
triumph of economy — enquiring the prices of the 
articles he wished to purchase. 

To his surprise Lady Van Rennen needed no coax- 
ing: she took to Julie at once; for the primitive rea- 
son that she was not “ pasty like those London 
women,” and looked likely to bear healthy children: 
confided in her the precise details of the birth and 
death of the five which had preceded Archie: pre- 
sented her with a diamond tiara, which — in con- 
junction with the historic white muslin — Julie wore 
one evening at the Rectory high tea — to the admi- 
ration of the house parlourmaid, who declared it was 
wonderful how they “got up them things to look 
like real”: wept over her son: egged him on to pub- 
lic demonstrations of affection: bought him cholera 
belts and an elaborate and perfectly useless cooking 
apparatus — against her better judgment, knowing 
by experience that there was nothing so good as a 
kerosene tin. Finally she motored down to Fountains, 
and would have appalled everybody by her dress, 
diamonds, and dignity, had she not stumbled over 
one of her innumerable lace flounces, coming up the 
terrace steps, and rapped out a clear-cut — and what 
Finch termed an eminently lovable — “damn!” — 
this to the delight of her future daughter-in-law, who 
already adored her: classed her as a “dear” in the 
160 


LADY VAN RENNEN INVESTIGATES 


same category as Simpson and Parrifleet: chummed 
up with her: treated her as though they were pre- 
cisely the same age, and completely won her heart. 

Really it was a strictly business visit, to enquire 
into the prospects of Kirkland’s scheme. Sir Abel 
had been expected too, but was prevented by a crisis 
in what his wife termed — with all the hatred of an 
old miner for any other industry — '‘the antics o’ 
them unnatural Rubbers.” 

However, — at first somewhat to their amuse- 
ment, — she put, not only Kirkland, but Schwartz 
and Hilton, who were there from Saturday till 
Monday, briskly through their facings. 

“The boy’s a child; scarcely knows he’s been 
born,” she declared — a remark that Van Rennen 
took with great good humour: though later on he 
confided to Julie — “If I don’t know, it is n’t that 
I ’ve not been told all about it, with every possible 
detail.” 

“If the scheme’s sound,” went on the old lady, 
“Sir Abel will be willing to — ” she hesitated a 
moment, then added discreetly: — “well, to think 
things over. And since he’s been prevented from 
coming here himself, an’ there ain’t nothing he does 
that I ’m not, so to speak, in, I ’ll take upon myself to 
ask a few questions. If a thing’s fair an’ aboveboard 
it ’ull bear enquiring into, that’s my principle. No 
offence meant, and none taken, I hope, gentlemen.” 

“ Certainly not : I speak for all of us — eh, what ? ” 
answered Banks effusively. For upon the financial 
161 


SIMPSON 


world where — when not at Fountains — he lived 
and moved and had his being, Sir Abel Van Rennen 
shone from afar; like a sun of the first magnitude. 

But the old lady brushed him aside with a glance. 

“Well, what I want to know is this. My lad here 
has told us that you have the option of buying this 
Siberian mine, as I hear tell of, for a matter of forty 
thousand pounds, and that you’ll need capital to 
develop it. Now, what do you propose to do? If 
our name ’s in any way to be mixed up in it I have a 
right to ask that.” 

“ Certainly, Lady Van Rennen : and I shall be only 
too happy to inform you,” answered Schwartz, to 
whom she addressed her remarks — holding the 
theory that “one always knows where one is with a 
Jew, which is more than one does with most Chris- 
tians”: — “We propose to float a company with a 
nominal capital of two hundred thousand, in one 
pound shares — of which sixty-five thousand would 
be six per cent preference shares — and a bonus of 
sixty-five thousand fully paid-up ordinary shares. I 
may tell you we already have a guarantee of sixty- 
five thousand pounds cash.” 

“What about the sum needed for development?” 

“ I am coming to that. Our friend here, Mr. Kirk- 
land, has reason to believe that the present owner 
will be willing to take part of his forty thousand 
pounds in shares. It appears that he is a man of few 
personal needs, and is more anxious that the mine 
should be in full working, for the sake of his people 
162 


LADY VAN RENNEN INVESTIGATES 


than for any very great or very immediate financial 
profit — as far as he himself is concerned. Is n’t that 
so, Kirkland?” 

“ Yes; at least, that’s what I gathered.” 

“Well, then, supposing we find that he will be 
satisfied with twenty-five thousand pounds in cash, 
and the rest in ordinary shares. That would leave 
us forty thousand pounds in hand — less expenses — 
for developing purposes. As to the remaining ordi- 
nary shares, a good block should go to us, as holders 
of the option over the mine ; while the balance could 
remain in reserve for later issue, when the expenses 
may be increased. Is that not so, gentlemen?” he 
continued, glancing round at the other three, who 
nodded their assent. 

“Now, what am I to understand as to the guar- 
antee of that sixty-five thousand pounds which you 
tell of?” enquired Lady Van Rennen, with her 
shrewd eyes full upon him, her long upper lip drawn 
down, her lower one thrust out, her round face alive 
with concentrated attention. 

“That is from bankers in Paris, and is absolutely 
certain. Of course, they come in; and at the same 
time we should be glad of a limited number of other 
shareholders; though we do not, as yet, intend to 
offer indiscriminately to the outside public. Should 
you, or any of your friends, desire to take up a five 
per cent participation in the affair you must be pre- 
pared to put up a hundred in the first place. Then — 
when the mine is bought — five per cent of the sixty- 
163 


SIMPSON 


five thousand ; for which you will receive three thou- 
sand, two hundred and fifty pounds of six per cent 
preference shares, and three thousand, two hundred 
and fifty pounds of bonus shares. Of course, there 
will be certain expenses necessarily incurred by Mr. 
Kirkland, who is going out as inspecting engineer; 
and your son, who, I believe, accompanies him.” 

'‘Roughly estimated at two thousand pounds,” 
put in Kirkland. The old lady nodded. Her dark 
eyes were screwed up to the merest slits, her bonnet 
on one side, her knees wide apart. Yet, in spite of all 
this, she presented a curiously impressive picture, as 
she sat enthroned in a large garden chair, with the 
little group of men — in their light summer clothes 
— seated round her: bending forward, as keenly in- 
terested, as eager to create a favourable impression 
as though she had been the great Sir Abel himself. 

“Now, as to this precious mine. What sort of 
reefs are they?” 

“Quartz — with slate, which, according to re- 
ports, is thickly veined with gold : gold of high stand- 
ard, nine hundred and seventy fine.” 

“What ’s the output been?” 

“There are four reefs, only one as yet in working; 
the crushing being done with a five-stamp battery. 
Up to last autumn there had been three thousand, 
three hundred and twenty-eight ounces produced 
from four thousand, one hundred tons.” 

Again it was Kirkland who spoke; leaning for- 
ward, his hands tightly clasped between his knees, his 
164 


LADY VAN RENNEN INVESTIGATES 


leathery face rendered almost stupid by his habitual 
concealment of all expression. 

“With a ten-stamp battery we calculate that we 
might crush — counting three hundred working 
days to the year — nine thousand tons, producing 
six thousand, seven hundred and fifty ounces of gold ; 
which — deducting government charge — would net 
us twenty-seven thousand pounds. But we hope to 
do more than that. By the end of this year we expect 
— if all goes well — to have installed thirty head of 
stamps; and go on increasing this till we have a 
hundred head in working. But for that, of course, 
more money would be needed; though the profits 
would run up to as much as a hundred and fifty 
thousand a year.” 

Again Schwartz took up the tale : Banks chipping in 
occasionally with an acumen which would have sur- 
prised any one who had only seen him under social 
conditions. The whole conversation — eddying round 
Lady Van Rennen, whose bonnet became each mo- 
ment more awry — swung to and fro between the 
three men ; while figures were piled one upon an- 
other, in a fashion which astounded Julie — on whom 
eggs at a shilling or one and two a dozen : butter at 
one and three or eighteenpence, had always been im- 
pressed as affairs of the utmost moment; for the Hon- 
ourable and Reverend’s household was conducted on 
lines which allowed for a fine display of cut-glass and 
silver, and but little margin in the matter of food. 

The means of transport: the water supply: the 

165 


SIMPSON 


labor market: wages: hours: the permanency of the 
mining rights: the attitude of the government; the 
depths of the reefs ; the wood available for timbering, 
were all in their turn examined. The old lady’s astute 
questions, each as pointed as a lance, searching out 
every possible crack in Schwartz’s armour. 

But at last she rose, declaring herself satisfied, 
though she made no promises, passed no remarks: 
sat down again, to drink the tea which Simpson 
ordered ; and — with a handkerchief over her wide 
spread knees — devoured a vast quantity of hot 
cakes, while diverting them all by tales of her old 
digging days. 

“A shrewd businesswoman : a pleasure to talk to a 
woman like that!” commented Banks, as they stood 
on the steps, waving their adieux to the departing 
car. “ Believe she thinks well of it, too — eh, what? ” 

“That, my very good friend, is what neither you 
nor I nor anyone else knows,” replied Schwartz, 
“excepting the fair lady herself. For she V one of 
those rarest phenomena of nature: a woman who 
knows how to keep her thoughts to herself.” 

As it chanced, however, Banks was right; for three 
days later came a letter from Sir Abel signifying his 
willingness to provide ten thousand pounds of the 
working capital of the Kerkerod Mining Company, 
and allow his own august name to appear among the 
directors : on certain conditions — conditions which 
caused Schwartz to remark that the mining magnate 
and his wife were a well-matched couple. 




/ 


PART II 


✓ 


/ 


















» 



\ 



A 


CHAPTER XV 


SOME FRUIT OF THE FIRST DINNER PARTY BY WHICH 
STRANG IS TORN WITH MANY DIVERSE PASSIONS 

It was an evening in late November, and dinner 
was just over at Fountains Court: or rather, it 
had reached the pleasant stage of wine, coffee, 
and cigars: while Finch was still busy over an 
orange. 

Banks, however, had already risen and was stand- 
ing, warming himself at the fire: his coffee-cup on 
the mantelpiece, and his large person expanding in 
front of the blaze, like some fleshy and opulent 
flower. He had only come down that night, fresh 
from the City, the close atmosphere of capital and 
Toryism, and was holding forth in his unctuous 
fashion to Finch and Simpson — the only other 
members present — on the fact that England was 
“going to the dogs”: that he, for one, was glad his 
money was out of it: that some one ought to do 
something, and that quickly: indulging in such a 
lengthy tirade that Finch — having at last finished 
his dessert — lit a cigar, and sitting sideways at the 
table began to pass the time, till he should be able to 
get in a word, by sketching him on the back of a 
menu card. 


169 


SIMPSON 


“Another year — I give ’em another year — and 
the Germans will be here.” 

At last Banks paused for breath; and Finch cut 
in: — 

“At this very dinner- table, sipping our port, 
smoking our cigars,” he remarked mockingly, his 
pencil flying. “I must polish up my German; we’ll 
read Goethe together.” 

“ It ’s all very well to talk. It ’s fellows like you — 
with your beastly Socialistic ideas — that have 
brought the country to the state it’s in now.” 

“Me — Socialistic ? Ye gods ! ’ ’ 

“Well, what are you then — eh, what? — All 
you artist fellows, who don’t take anything seriously; 
with your everlasting sniggering at religion and 
everything else! If you are n’t Socialistic — God, I 
don’t know what Socialists are, or what you are. 
Are you a Liberal — ? Tell me that. No. Are you a 
Conservative? No. Then, damn it all, man, what 
can you be but a Socialist? All the Johnnys that 
don’t know anything or care anything are Socialists. 
It’s the spirit of the times — and damned bad times 
they are too. Damned bad tone: in everything, 
affecting everything. The markets — look at the 
markets, for instance — no firmness anywhere. It ’s 
like that man — what do you call him — that you 
fellows are always raving about! Shaw — Bernard 
Shaw. Always chopping and changing. You think 
it’s damned funny to wear a red tie, an’ start fellows 
striking. But where will you Socialists be when 
170 


SOME FRUIT OF THE DINNER PARTY 


there’s no more money left in the country? And it’s 
affecting everything, I can tell you that. Why even 
in the Near Far East — City o’ Constantinople Five 
Per Cents — have you seen ’em to-day, — eh, 
Simpson? An’ Russian Fours, — eh, what? By Jove, 
there’ll be the devil to pay if it goes on.” 

“ I wish I could follow you, Banks; you business 
men are so vague,” remarked Finch plaintively. 
“ You won’t put money in English concerns because 
England’s going to the dogs, and it does n’t seem 
much good putting it in anything else, because every- 
thing else is affected by this curious state of being fit 
and ready for the kennels, from which England has 
suffered ever since I remember. And the oddest part 
of it all is, that it’s the fault of the Socialistic chaps, 
who you say don’t do anything. Truly it’s a mad 
world, my masters.” 

“Do anything! Of course, they don’t do any- 
thing, but talk: every fool knows that. My God, 
though, they’ll get a surprise when they wake 
up some day and find that all the German waiters 
have mobilized, an’ the German battleships are 
thick along the Channel. By Jove, that’ll teach 
’em.” 

“To be prepared another time — in another life; 
as you are preparing now, — eh, Charlie, my dear? 
George, here you have Banks prepared to repulse 
the Germans and rescue England from the ‘demni- 
tion bow-wows.’ What do you think of that?” And 
he tossed a vivid sketch — representing Banks, 

171 


SIMPSON 


swelling with patriotism and a seven-course dinner 
— across the table to Simpson. 

“Do you notice he’s all curves? There’s not a 
straight line anywhere; excepting the two sides of 
his necessarily shallow collar, beneath his darling 
dimpled chin. Even his ideas are circular.” 

“Finch, you’re damned impertinent!” — Banks 
was beginning furiously, when Jervis entered the 
room and bent over Simpson. 

“Mr. Strang to see you, sir, directly you’ve 
finished dinner.” 

“Won’t he come in? — Ask him to come in, Jer- 
vis, and have some coffee.” 

“No, sir, he won’t come in. He says it’s very 
pressing. An’ — if you ’ll excuse me, sir — I think 
there must be some trouble, he seems very flurried 
like and put out.” 

“God! I hope it’s nothing wrong at home,” put in 
Banks, puffing out his cheeks importantly. “Are 
you sure he did n’t ask for me, Jervis? I ’d better 
go and see him, — eh, what, Simpson? The decent 
thing to do — old friend of the family, an’ all that, 
you know.” 

“Mr. Strang said as how he particularly wanted 
to see Mr. Simpson alone, if you’ll excuse me, sir,” 
interposed Jervis. 

“Yes, I’d better see him alone.” Simpson had 
risen from the table, his kind face clouded with 
anxiety. “Poor Strang; decent sort of fellow that; 
hope there’s nothing wrong. If it’s all right I’ll 
172 


SOME FRUIT OF THE DINNER PARTY 

bring him back here — excuse me, you fellows/’ he 
said ; and then added : — 

“Where did you put him, Jervis?” 

“In the library, sir,” replied the man; and held 
open the door to let his master pass out before 
him. 

Strang, who was standing upright in the middle 
of the library, making no pretence of occupying him- 
self, raised his head with a sharp, nervous gesture as 
his host entered ; then moved a step forward. 

“Look here, Simpson,” he began, as if beyond all 
pretence of a formal greeting. “Look here, I want 
you to help me. I don’t know what to do. I ’m in 
hell — -by God, I ’m in hell!” The man’s face twitched 
as he spoke, and jerking his handkerchief from 
his pocket he wiped his forehead. “I don’t know 
what to do; tell me what to do,” he repeated help- 
lessly. 

Simpson put out his hand and touched the bell. 
“The best thing you can do, to start with, is to have 
a good stiff brandy-and-soda. Then sit down here by 
the fire, an’ tell me how I can help you.” 

“I can’t sit down. It’s gone on all this time: 
and I ’ve kept quiet about it — no one could have 
guessed. But now I feel as if I never could sit still 
again. My office — by God, Simpson! — you can’t 
imagine what my bffice has become to me. I feel as if 
I could burst the walls with the hell inside me — as 
if I must burst them! I’ve — ” he broke off sharply 
as Jervis entered with a tray: then, throwing off 
173 


SIMPSON 


the strong draught which Simpson poured out for 
him, went on, directly the door closed. 

“It was only to-night, all of a sudden, — I felt 
that I ’d go mad if I did n’t tell some one, — I 
thought of you. I don’t know why except that you 
seemed so solid and quiet, and I knew you under- 
stood the world, would help me, would n’t laugh at 
me. I felt sure of that — though I don’t know why.” 

Simpson, who had sat down in a big chair by the 
fire, and was smoking, — with the idea that some- 
how his calmness might, in time, soothe the other, — 
nodded. 

“Of course, I’ll do anything I can; go on.” 

“Well, you remember — at your dinner that 
Merwin — ” 

“Who?” 

“Merwin Smith — the gipsy girl who came in 
late — now you remember? Well, they’ve camped 
here, been here all the summer and autumn.” Strang 
cleared his throat huskily. 

“ Do you recollect? I had no guest? She said that 
I was her mate? I thought at the time that it sounded 
horrible — like an animal. But you all laughed. By 
God, just to think of it! — You all laughed. It 
seemed a sort of joke then. But it was true — She 
says we must have been meant for mates since the 
stars were made. And, Simpson; look here, Simp- 
son! I believe it’s true. There are things I hate 
about her: personal things: her way of speaking, of 
looking at life — her very way of loving me. But I 
' 174 


SOME FRUIT OF THE DINNER PARTY 


can’t get free — though I hate it. It’s like being 
possessed: all my flesh seems alive with longing for 
her when she’s away — though we can’t be together 
without quarrelling. She’s in everything; comes 
between me and my work. I can’t even see a child 
without wondering what her child and mine would 
be like; can’t look at a woman as I used to do. Look 
here, Simpson, ’pon my word, I did n’t know I ’d got 
a body before, beyond a head that ached, or tired 
feet : but now I ’m all body. It ’s as if I was raw from 
head to foot. I don’t know how it was — I used to 
be half ashamed; felt I was n’t quite like other men; 
but nothing roused me. I did n’t seem able to feel — 
well, in that sort of way. I suppose it was all the 
responsibility and living with my mother and sisters 
where I ’d been all my life ; where every one knew me. 
Partly that, and partly” — here his voice dropped 

— “ worshipping some one as far above me as the 
heavens. That’s it — that’s the awful part of it, 
Simpson — I worship her still — in a sort of way — 
with my mind, with the best of me. But for the rest, 
Merwin has me, body and soul.” The man came to 
a sudden pause in front of Simpson, gripping the 
back of a chair, while the sweat stood out on his 
forehead. “ And now, what am I to do? It ’s come to 
this — I must do something.” 

'‘You mean you’ve been meeting her — making 
love to her?” 

“ Making love ! ” Strang jerked out a harsh laugh : 

— “Yes, if you can call it making love, when one’s 

175 


SIMPSON 

swept off one’s feet — by a torrent — a rushing 
flame.” 

“You mean she’s — she — ” Simpson hesitated. 

“ No — no. Don’t wrong her there. It’s my doing 
as much as hers, — some devil in me. Do you know, 
I don’t remember what it’s like to have had a quiet 
mind — to be able to sleep properly. And yet only 
five months ago — ” For a moment he was silent: 
then broke out again: “And it’s as bad for her: 
for — God only knows why — but she loves me, too. 
There’s no doubt about that.” 

For a moment Strang paused, wiping his brow; 
then moved over to the fire, and stood gazing into 
it: “No, after all, it’s not the same — not so bad. 
She loves love ; it ’s part of her nature : loves all the 
excitement and unrest, all the wild passion; it’s in 
her blood. But with me — you know, Simpson, how 
well ordered my life has been ; the same thing at the 
same time, every day : the peace, the settled feeling 
of it all.” 

“And that’s what you value!” remarked Simpson 
rather scornfully : — “Yet you’re ten years younger 
than I am.” 

“It’s what I’m used to somehow,” answered 
Strang, almost peevishly: — “the other upsets me, 
frightens me. I’ve always been taught that all 
excitement and emotion were out of place — vulgar. 
And yet — and yet ! I can talk of her now almost 
calmly, think of her calmly : feel that I ’d give any- 
thing to be free, never to have seen her; because” — 
176 


SOME FRUIT OF THE DINNER PARTY 


here he looked up, and laid one finger upon the dial 
of the clock upon the mantelpiece — “it’s just — 
counting the time I Ve been with you — one hour 
since I’ve left her. Two or three hours more, and 
I ’d give my soul to hold her in my arms.” 

“You say the girl loves you. Has she — ” Simp- 
son flushed all over his honest face. “Has she — 
how far has it gone? Have you — have you been 
fair to her?” 

“ I Ve done — done what other men do, I suppose.” 

Strang jerked back his head with the half-defiant, 
half-satisfied air of a boy who has proved himself a 
man. Then, suddenly remembering all that it meant, 
his face twitched again. 

“ But — I must get out of it! Something must be 
done. I Ve not got only myself to think of, and I 
can’t do my work — anything. You can advise me. 
You’re a man of the world: must have been in such 
holes yourself.” 

t “No,” said Simpson quietly. 

Strang stared: “Well, anyhow, you will know 
what to do: will help me.” 

“As far as I can see, the best thing, the only thing, 
will be for you to go away; for a time, at least.” 

“ It’s out of the question. I ’m just settling up all 
the Clevedon estate. They’d think I was mad. It 
would ruin me — ruin my business. And there ’s my 
mother and sisters to be thought of.” 

“Well, the girl must be got away. Are they all 
there?” 


177 


SIMPSON 


“No, only a couple of families, and an old grand- 
mother and cousin of — of hers, who stayed behind 
the rest of the tribe.” 

“Can you persuade her to go away?” 

“ I can’t! Simpson, I can’t! You don’t know what 
it is when I ’m with her. Even when we ’re quarrel- 
ling, there’s no one else. She’d go if I as much 
as hinted it — she ’s as proud as Lucifer : but I 
couldn’t. I’ve tried it before — said things: and 
then done all I could to make it up. It’s like a 
curse — how can such things be ! We would never 
be happy together — think of my mother and sisters ! 
And yet I could n’t do it — I could n't do it, Simp- 
son. Don’t you see? It would be like cutting off my 
own limbs.” 

“Well, it seems to me that the only thing will be 
for me to see her myself. If I promise to try and 
speak to her to-morrow morning, will you give me 
your word of honour not to see her first?” 

“Yes, I promise, I swear it. I won’t come out of 
my room. Only, for God’s sake, do it early. There’s 
no telling — perhaps when I know it ’sail over, I ’ll 
have some rest, some peace.” 

“There’s only one thing. You are sure there’s no 
— no fear of consequences : that the girl ’s all right, 
or I won’t move a step unless it’s to force you to 
marry her; I don’t forget that you met her in my 
house, that she was my guest as much as any of you.” 

“No — no, I am sure. Of course, of course, she 
would have told me if there was the remotest fear of 
178 


SOME FRUIT OF THE DINNER PARTY 


that. My God, how awful it would be ! ” The young 
lawyer’s face was wrung afresh at the thought. 
“ But there ’s no fear of that : on my word, Simpson ; 
on my word as a gentleman!” 

“Very well. You need n’t swear about it, you’re 
not in the witness box,” remarked Simpson, rather 
irritably, for he was beginning to feel disgusted : — 
“Where is it that they’re camped?” 

“Do you remember the double row of elms on 
either side of the road when you get out of Long 
Ilkley? Just at the end of that there’s a grass road, 
with high hedges, branching off to the left.” 

“Yes, I always wondered where it went.” 

“It goes nowhere. After a couple of hundred yards 
it widens out, then stops dead in front of a gate lead- 
ing into a field. And it ’s there, at the end of the lane, 
they’ve got their camp.” 

“All right; I’ll go in good time to-morrow, and 
see what I can do.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson.” Strang pulled him- 
self upright with a jerk. “ Indeed, I never can thank 
you sufficiently. I feel that my confidence will be 
— h’m — absolutely safe in your hands. And — ” 
suddenly it seemed as though the man was once 
more enfolded in the combined conventionality of 
generations of country lawyers, as in a mantle which 
hid all his personal characteristics. “And if any 
pecuniary claims are made by any of the rest of the 
clan, I must ask you to settle the matter — within a 
certain limit — as seems best to you ; and let me 
179 


SIMPSON 


know the extent of my indebtedness. You under- 
stand the — h’m — the absolute necessity for se- 
crecy? ” 

“ I need hardly reassure you on that point,” re- 
plied his host rather stiffly, as he rose and shook 
hands: then touched the bell. 

“I’m afraid I’ve trespassed most unwarrantably 
upon your time: taken you away from your friends.” 
Strang hesitated, fidgeting nervously. 

“Not at all. You won’t come in, I suppose?” 

“No, no; good-evening, Mr. Simpson; and believe 
me I am infinitely obliged to you.” He was drawing 
on his gloves as he spoke; and after a stiff little 
bow, had moved towards the door. There, however, 
he suddenly turned, and with short, hurried steps 
moved once more to Simpson’s side and laid his 
hand on his arm. 

“For God’s sake, don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her 
more than you can help — be hard upon her. She ’s 
a fine creature — a fine creature, a world too good 
for me! For I’m a lawyer to the bone! That’s it, 
Simpson ; that ’s it. And Heaven only knows why she 
should care. It makes me feel — makes me feel 
ashamed,” he added. Then with bent head he walked 
to the door, which Jervis held open; leaving his host 
with a feeling of more real sympathy than, five min- 
utes earlier, he could have thought possible. 


CHAPTER XVI 

SIMPSON ACTS AS AN EMBASSY TO THE GIPSIES' 
CAMP; FINDING, IN HIMSELF, AN UNEXPECTED 
AFFINITY FOR VAGABONDAGE 

It was with infinite reluctance that Simpson set out 
on his self-appointed task next morning: early that 
he might get it over all the sooner. He rode through 
Long Ilkley, quite uncheered by the bobbing curtsies 
of the children on their way to school; and passing 
between the double line of elms, turned up the grassy 
road, over which he had so often so idly puzzled: 
idly, I say ; for with that sense of infinite time, which 
is an integral part of country life, he had always put 
off exploring it until some other day. 

The grass was still green, with shimmering, wind- 
swept pools in every hollow and hoof-hole. But the 
hedges at either side, bare save for a few crimson 
berries, were a mass of deep madder- tin ted twigs; 
the stubble-fields beyond them neutral ; the sky grey, 
and the wind cold with the promise of snow. 

It was a chilly morning — an unkind morning. 
The groom who brought round Simpson’s grey cob 
had declared it as being “a greatcoat colder” than 
the day before: a morning when, as he felt, life was 
hard enough for every one — excepting the most 
181 


SIMPSON 


comfortably housed and fed. And here was he on his 
way to make it harder, and that for a woman ; a task 
he abhorred from the very depth of his heart. 

After a hundred yards or so the lane took a sudden 
twist, round the corner of which the grey shied vio- 
lently ; for almost immediately it widened out, in the 
fashion which Strang had described, and there right 
in front of them were the remains of the gipsies’ 
camp. 

Not only did the lane widen: it also dipped; 
and the caravan and cluster of brown tents which 
composed the camp — one a mere strip of canvas 
stretched between two thorn trees, beneath which 
sat a young woman crouching over a tiny fire, and 
suckling a baby — were pitched in a water-sodden 
hollow. The littered, down-trodden grass — show- 
ing whitish patches where other tents had stood — 
was pierced by coarse clumps of rushes, at which an 
ancient, yellowish white horse, with cut and swollen 
knees, pulled distastefully. 

Two or three children, playing with empty tins 
among the puddles, ran to Simpson and begged in a 
practised whine; holding out red, chapped hands, 
rolling their dark eyes, and showing all their white 
teeth in a manner at once bold and ingratiating ; 
until a flap of one of the tents was pulled aside and a 
harsh voice demanded : — 

41 Who’s there?’’ 

In a moment the children had drawn back, with 
their eyes slantwise on Simpson ; while one — a girl 
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SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 


of about thirteen — laughed, put her finger to her 
lips, as if to ask him not to tell, and answered back in 
some unintelligible gibberish ; at which the tent flap 
was pulled farther aside, and an old woman appeared 
in the opening. 

“What are you seeking?” she demanded. With 
no preliminary greeting; and so evidently on her 
defence that Simpson wondered whether she sus- 
pected his errand. The next moment, however, he 
realised that something else oppressed her con- 
science, for when he asked for Merwin Smith her 
face at once cleared. 

“She’s gone along the wood, seeking a bit o’ 
kindlin’, for everything’s sopping this weather,” she 
answered. “One o’ the brats shall call her. Off you 
go, Sarah ” ; and she signed to the tall girl ; who, after 
a curious glance at the stranger, clambered over the 
gate at the back of the camp, and made her way up a 
sloping field towards a dark coppice, which crowned 
the top like a frowning brow. 

“You’ve got a damp spot here,” remarked Simp- 
son, by way of passing the time. “I should have 
thought you could have found a better place for the 
winter.” 

“It’s killin’ me,” responded the old woman com- 
plainingly. “It gets into my bones an’ rots ’em. 
An’ the people here, narrow an’ graspin’ and mean 
like the land, all grudging alike. An’ the weather 
that cold that the hares be lying numb in the far- 
rows o’ nights, so there ain’t no finding them. An’ 
l8 3 


SIMPSON 


all the withes for the baskets clean run out; an’ the 
men devourin' themselves with fightin’ an’ quarrel- 
ling 'for sheer idleness.” Her singsong voice ran on, 
with the monotonous sound of a dirge. “Merwin 
says, ‘Wait till the spring. Wait till the spring,’ 
says she. But she be young and lusty: the sap ain’t 
got no power to rise in old bones that once be frooze. 
An’ there’s the West country, all bonny an’ callin’: 
an’ we moulderin’ here.” 

“Well, why don’t you move West?” Simpson 
spoke hopefully, here at least was some one of his 
own way of wishing. 

“It’s Merwin”; the old crone came closer and, 
bent half double, peered up at him, with bleared eyes 
set in an incredibly wrinkled face. “You bain’t the 
gentleman as comes arter ’er? No, no,” she added 
hastily, as if conscious of her mistake : “you ’re warm 
o’ blood like the West: but he’s thin and perishin’ 
an’ wantin’ as the place he bides in. Well, so it be! 
Merwin’s gotten a paramour” — she brought out 
the old Bible word quite naturally — “an’ won’t not 
go; an’ the lads be wild an’ won’t not go without her. 
So here we all be; rottin’ for the will o’ a lass — as 
many a likely ’un has rotted afore now.” 

“What does her grandmother say? Are you — ” 
Simpson hesitated over the unuttered question. 

“No, no; she’s along in there.” She jerked her 
head in the direction of the caravan, of which the 
door was tightly shut, and the window curtains 
drawn — giving it an air of eyes and lips tight upon 
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SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 


some secret. “She was at the head of the tribe an’ 
ruled us all. Now Merwin rules she. An’ so it is: 
dead afore she’s drawn her last breath.” 

“Well, why don’t you go? How many are here?” 

“There’s my darter an’ her son Sam, as is mad 
wild for Merwin. An’ that girl as I sent searching 
just now, she be hers; an’ another lad o’ seven years 
or so. An’ there ’s my brother’s son, as has a wife of 
his own: she be there”: and she jerked her head in 
the direction of the woman with the baby. “An’ 
them other two children be his too. But here he’ll 
bide, willy-nilly, where Merwin do bide. An’ here 
be me, whose own love o’ man flared out these 
twenty years back, tied by the leg with other folks’ 
lusts. An’ the uncle o’ Merwin, as is a natural ; an’ 
her grandmother: all held here, for the will o’ one 
lass, moonstruck by a whey-faced ninny. An’ no 
trade doin’ ; an’ all the folk castin’ the strange eye 
at us, an’ our bellies empty, an’ our pipes out. But 
there it be, there it be.” The half-chanted words 
held all the fatalism of a Greek chorus. 

“Do you smoke?” 

“Aye, when there’s aught to smoke.” A gleam of 
hope shot through the dolorous words. 

“ Hold up your hands.” The old woman did as she 
was told ; her dull eyes brightening as Simpson emp- 
tied his tobacco pouch into them. 

“God bless you, my dear. An’ yer lady, with her 
lil head like the ripe corn on the slender stalk.” 

Simpson laughed, though a sudden memory of a 

185 


SIMPSON 


fair face and slender white neck sent the blood 
pumping through his veins. 

“You’re mistaken, there’s no lady for me,” he 
protested. But the old woman had caught his look, 
and laughed. 

“To come, to come,” she said, screwing up her 
crafty eyes and peering into his face. “Ah, well, it’s 
a fine thing where the blood’s still fresh enough to be 
set leapin’ by a word. It ’ud take more nor a word, 
nor a touch either, to set mine off, come these days. 
Though I can tell you this, my pretty gentleman — ” 
and she chuckled knowingly — “time was when a 
touch — ” 

“Well, the best thing is for you to get away!” 
interposed Simpson hastily; took a sovereign out of 
his pocket and slipped it into her hand. “It will be 
better — believe me: better for every one.” 

“You’re right there, if it’s the girl you’re think- 
ing of. There’s young Sam as is mad fur her: hot 
and strong with the blood o’ her own people in his 
veins. Fur her own sake, too. What ’ud a hawk do 
mating with a white-faced louse, such as that yon 
is? She’ll have a bit o’ money, will Merwin. May- 
hap he comes arter her for that, mayhap he’s got 
wind o’ that!” Her crafty face was alive with greed 
at the thought. 

“No, I don’t think he’s after that: but it’s all the 
more reason you should get her away and marry her 
to your grandson — if he ’s a good fellow and loves 
her,” added Simpson with a sudden sense of com- 
186 


SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 


punction. For he had raised his head at the sound of 
a shout from the hillside, and looking up saw the 
young girl running: while behind her, walking slowly 
with her bare head very erect, came the woman who — * 
nearly five months earlier — had sat at his table, 
drunk his wine, and wished him his heart’s desire. 

As she reached the locked gate, Simpson dis- 
mounted to help her. 

But she sprang over it, with one hand on the top 
like a man, and without answering his greeting 
turned towards the old woman: “Go into your tent, 
Auntie Rachel ; you and your tongue take too much 
exercise over minding my business for me; you’ll 
be worn out afore your time. An’ you, go ! — ” With 
a gesture she swept the child on one side, then flung 
round upon Simpson. 

“Now, what is it?” she said, and stood facing 
him with challenging eyes. 

“Will you walk down to the end of the lane with 
me? We can talk better.” Simpson spoke with his 
usual gentle courtesy. 

“Aye.” 

The girl turned by his side, and for a few minutes 
they moved on in silence, Simpson with one hand 
in the grey cob’s mane, torturing himself as to what 
to say: hoping against hope that she would speak 
first. 

But the road came in sight, and as still she had 
not uttered a word he stopped, and took his courage 
in both hands. 


187 


SIMPSON 


“I’ve seen — been talking to Mr. Strang. He 
told me he — he — ” He hesitated, stammering. 

The girl’s eyes, half sullen, half frightened, were 
full upon him, her lips set in a scornful curve. But 
suddenly she trembled, and in the moment during 
which she struggled for self-control Simpson realised 
that she looked at once older and younger than she 
had done on the night he first saw her. More mature, 
more completely a woman ; yet less independent, more 
childlike: as if for the first time she had felt fear, 
realised her dependence on others; though she still 
held her head high, and kept silence : so that again he 
plunged on, with a sense of desperation. 

“Look here! Strang has told me about your — 
your friendship. He is awfully fond of you, but he is 
frightfully worried. You see, it can’t go on; you see 
for yourself that it can’t go on!” In his pity, and 
dislike for the task he had set himself, he spoke 
almost angrily. 

“Why not?” The question came with a sharp 
jerk of the girl’s chin. 

“Because things like that never do. People can’t 
be together, can’t care for each other in the way you 
do, without there being the devil to pay in the end : 
that is, unless they marry. And then,” he added with 
unusual cynicism, “it’s often only a question of cov- 
ering up the bad with the worse. But, believe me, I 
know what I am talking about. I don’t know why it 
is: whether the law makes the wrong or the wrong 
makes the law. It’s all a brutal business — but 
1 88 


SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ GAMP 

there it is!” The fatalistic phrase of the old gipsy 
woman rose to his lips. “ People won’t hold together 
unless they’re bound. It’s not a question of right 
or wrong, it’s human nature. And if they’re not 
bound they must pretend they are, and you know — 
every one knows — the hopelessness of that. It 
always ends in the same way : in misery for both, and 
in most misery for the one who cares most. It ’s the 
lies and deception that tell on a man : I ’ve seen them 
with their nerves fretted to fiddles trings, and stronger 
men than Strang.” 

“Strang’s all right.” 

“He may be all right, but he’s not the man for 
that sort of life. Talk of stolen fruit being sweetest ! 
That ’s a lie too — a lie that needs a host of other 
lies to support it.” 

“I’d not be afraid of a few lies for a man as I 
loved. Folks as asks questions, as comes interfering, 
deserves lies.” 

“I say! I’m sorry — ’’Simpson’s unusual elo- 
quence failed : he was suddenly oppressed by a sense 
of his own impertinence. “You think I’m a meddler 
— you ’re right there, and I can only say that I like 
it no better than you do. But as to lies; you have 
the — the imagination to lie well. But it’s differ- 
ent with a — ” he almost said “with a man,” but 
caught himself up in time; “with Strang. He’s 
always in fear of being found out. It poisons every- 
thing for him ; would poison him against you in time.” 

“He loves me.” 


SIMPSON 


“ As far as he knows how. But it wants something 
bigger than his love to set; him free from the fear of 
public opinion. You can scarcely realise how com- 
pletely this place is his whole world : how he lives by 
it, and for it: what its good opinion means to him.” 

Simpson had intended to offer the girl a bribe — 
his city-bred belief in the all-efficiency of money still 
holding — to raise the offer higher and higher : 
“within a certain limit,” as Strang had said. But — 
with a curious sureness that he understood her better 
than her lover — he found himself talking to her as 
though she was his equal: apologising for, almost 
belittling, his friend: — “His whole interests are 
bred up in this place: he has n’t the courage to face 
the whole thing out. It would need a very brave, a 
very independent man.” 

“To marry the likes of me?” 

“Well, you know that.” He spoke with sudden 
boldness, for it seemed the only way. “Look here, I 
don’t try to humbug you. It’s no question of one 
being better or worse than another — it ’s simply a 
question of custom and suitability. You know that 
it would require a good deal of strength on Strang’s 
part to marry you. And even then, what would your 
life together be? He’s not got only himself to con- 
sider, you know that?” 

“Well, have I only myself to consider? He has 
his people; but I have my people too. An’ they’re 
more to me than his are to him; for our blood is 
warmer nor his. He has his home an’ his country, 
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SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 


but my people are my home an’ country. You 
reckon it’s all him bending to me, a’cause I live in 
the open, go barefooted, wild among the wild: out- 
side law or pale. But my people thinks it ’s me bend- 
ing to him a’cause he’s a Gorgio: tame an’ set, an’ 
more unlearned in all my ways than I am in his. 
What’s a Strang?” she spoke with supreme scorn. 
“ What’s those thin-lipped, flat-breasted sisters o’ 
his, an’ that cold-eyed mother o’ his? I’ve seen 
’em,” she went on defiantly. “I’m not too proud 
to watch outside o’ the window o’ nights, to peep 
a’hind hedges. What are the likes o’ them to the 
Smiths: the P&tulengro, as our folks name us? 
There’s my grandmother’s close on a hundred, an’ 
her grandmother a hundred a’fore she died, an’ her 
grandmother a’fore her. An’ alway they tell back of 
the time when we was kings o’ Egypt. You count it 
shame for the like o’ me to mate with the likes o’ 
him: my folks count the shame for me.” 

“There’s no shame either way. But, look here, 
Merwin, you know, it would be fire and water. 
Strang’s a nice enough chap, but he’s — ” Simpson 
drew himself up sharply. “Why, you yourself said 
how different you are, how far apart.” 

“By birth an’ upbringing, mayhap. But there’s 
love a’tween us: love such as you ’ve never heard tell 
of. An’ that’ll mix us — time an’ for all.” 

“It might do with some. But custom’s stronger 
than most people. Strang’s swaddled in custom and 
you know it. Somewhere in the bottom of your 
191 


SIMPSON 


heart you know it. He’s not a big enough man to 
throw his cap over the windmill. After a while all 
sorts of things would begin to count first.” 

“He’s a little man ’cause he’s never felt the 
warmth o’ life — a wee white man, kept in a cellar 
away from all the sunshine o’ life : with a little soul 
an’ a little heart,” said the girl softly. 

“You know that! Then why — ?” 

“’Cause he’s mine. There’s no knowin’ why; no 
more than there’s any knowin’ why there’s rain one 
day an’ shine the next.” 

They had come to the end of the lane. And now, 
having turned up the road from Long Ilkley, stood 
in the middle of it, talking as if it were summer; 
though the wind, thinly white with hail, blew them 
all on one side; and Simpson shivered, while the 
cob half turned, and stood with its nose tucked in 
the bend of his arm, its tail between its legs. 

But the girl faced it erectly, the neck of her loose 
blouse open, her head bare. A couple of labourers 
passed them and turned to stare; but she took no 
notice. 

“ From the first night I set eyes on him I knew — 
an’ he knew. He has told me that ; he knew an’ was 
af eared. It turned him cold, he said — but to me it 
was like a scorching fire over a field o’ stubble. 

“He were so different to my own people,” she 
went on, her voice softening to a tender undertone. 
“The long white hands of him, and the high white 
forehead. Mayhap it was the difference as drew me, 
192 


SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ GAMP 


an’ the gentleness of him ; an’ the sort o’ fear o’ life, 
where others be taking with both hands, reckless an’ 
drunken, an’ bellowing o’ their desire, for all the 
world to hear — an’ him so clean an’ penikitty an’ 
white. When I lay my hand aside his, one ’ud think 
as I was the man, he the woman.” 

“There, you see what it is — he’s not man 
enough for you. Merwin, you know he’s not.” 

“ There ’s some as ’ud feel like that. There ’s small 
feckless women, weak, as wants some one to hold to. 
But there’s that o’ the man, or the mother, in me, as 
makes me need some one as wants caring for — 
maybe that ’s it. But there ’s no knowing what it be, 
save that we ’re mates. An’ all of him that ’s man is o’ 
my makin’,” she added fiercely; “an’ all o’ life that 
he knows is o’ my giving. It’s I as runs warm in his 
veins ; as taught him all that a woman means — 
beyond the cookin’ o’ victuals, mindin’ o’ a house.” 

“And now, where is it going to end?” 

“ It ’ll end — ” suddenly the girl’s face grew peaked 
and wan. “Do you reckon I don’t see as how it’s 
goin’ to end, bein’ as I am? It ’ull end in pain an’ in 
sorrow; as all such joy do. But there it is, ’t were 
none o’ my seekin’.” 

“Well, why let it end like that? It will only be 
harder to bear as time goes on. Why not end it now? 
You’re strong enough and big enough: why not go 
away; end it for yourself in your own way?” 

“He’d follow the call o’ my blood.” 

“I think not.” Simpson’s pitying eyes met the 
193 


SIMPSON 


girl’s fully; saw a fear that what he said was true 
creep into them, and turned from the sight. “Go 
now. Now he’ll be sorry for your going; instead of 
being sorry, for all time, that you stayed: think of 
you with regret and affection. It would be the bigger 
part: better than to drag on here and watch a man 
grow tired of you.” 

“He’d die with frettin’ — die for the sheer need 
o’ me. He’s not one as ’ud take up with any loose 
woman.” 

“ Perhaps not : but for all that, he ’ll die if you stay. 
If you ’d seen him last night — torn to pieces with 
regrets and fears.” 

“Why?” — the girl’s eyes were wide. “Ain’t 
lovin’ an’ matin’ nature to us? — The very beast 
knows that.” 

“ Nothing’s natural to a man who has been brought 
up, lived as he has: it’s a sort of agony to him.” 

“He’s not happy. No, I know he’s not happy. 
He’s alius afeared — afeared o’ some’ut.” And she 
struck her hands together with a gesture, half of 
despair, half of exasperation. “ But then love is fear- 
some — terrible, love such as ours be,” she went on 
defiantly. “An’ I reckoned it wur as the birth-pain 
to a woman, that he wur getting his manhood. But 
there it be.” 

“And now you must go, if you love him. Away 
from here, out of his life.” 

“Did he tell you to say that?” The girl’s voice 
broke sharply, as she leant forward and stared at 
194 


SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 

Simpson, through the mist of snow, into which the 
hail had now thickened. “He told you to tell me to 
go?” 

“He said it would be easier for him — that he 
could forget better if you went. He said I was to tell 
you that if there was any way in which I could help 
you — anything to do — give you which would 
make it easier — ” 

“What do you mean by that?” Her voice grew 
suddenly harsh, as she leant forward and peered into 
Simpson’s face. 

“If there was any expense of moving and all 
that — ” he blurted out; a ludicrous picture of pan- 
technicons loaded with furniture passing through 
his mind. Strang had been a fool, and worse, to 
suggest such a thing as money — but he felt himself 
bound to repeat the offer. “I was to tell you that 
he’d be only too glad to help — to — ” 

“To buy off my love! By God, that’s enough! 
I’ll not go, I’ll stay! I’ll go after him toe on heel. 
I ’ll point to him as the man who never dared to be a 
man till I learned him. I ’ll tell his mother an’ his 
sisters of all there ’s been atween us : how the stream 
as they dammed up came to burst: an’ the greed an’ 
the lust o’ him, when once he tasted love. To pay 
me! To offer me money to go — I that was as 
mother an’ wife to him!” She caught her hands 
together and beat at her breast in a sort of fury. 
“What ’ud they say, they of my tribe, to know I’d 
been given the go-by? Sam ’ud put his foot upon his 
195 


SIMPSON 


neck, as I once seen him do to a man as was too free 
with me — an’ I’d be glad to see it done to him. 
An’ Dan, too, an’ Uncle Dimitri, the hunchback, as 
has arms like an ape. There ’s not one as ’ud pass by 
an’ leave him if they so much as guessed. But I ’ll be 
even with him myself ; an’ I ’ll not go — an’ I ’ll not 
go! You can tell him that. If he was to offer me all 
the gold o’ the Queen o’ Sheba, I ’d not go.” 

“Then you never loved him.” 

The girl laughed harshly — “What does a little, 
round, pot-bellied, old man like you know o’ love?” 
she asked scornfully. 

“This much: that a woman who has once loved a 
man never wants to see him suffer.” 

“Suffer!” she mocked. 

“Yes, suffer. If you’d seen him last night you’d 
have realised how he has suffered. What ’s the good 
of trying to squeeze a quart of wine into a pint ginger- 
beer bottle?” he went on, speaking as crudely as the 
girl had done. “ It ’s not his fault that he ’s not made 
to hold more; it’s your fault for not having known 
better. But if you don’t care, there’s nothing to be 
done.” 

“ I reckon the fault is that I ’ve cared overmuch.” 

“But not in the right way.” 

“I’ll not go!” Merwin reiterated sullenly. 

“ I think you will; you’ve too much pride to stay 
where you’re not wanted.” 

“ I ’ll stay to please myself.” 

“ If you stay, I believe he ’ll kill himself. Don’t you 
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SIMPSON VISITS THE GIPSIES’ CAMP 


realise he’s not the man to stand this sort of thing? 
By God, I believe that you ’ll have his death at your 
door.” 

Merwin drew back a little and folded her arms 
round herself with a shiver. “ I ’ll go,” she said dully. 
“Auntie Rachel’s right; it’s cold here — it bites to 
the bone — yes, I ’ll go.” 

“When?” 

“You ’re mighty impatient: but that don’t mat- 
ter — nothing matters. I ’ll go to-night. I an’ my 
people, my Granny an’ Auntie Rachel ; an’ Dan an’ 
Dan’s wife an’ babies, an’ the young girl an’ Sam an’ 
the hunchback. All the filthy common folk, as has 
stunk in the nostrils of them yonder;” she laughed 
drearily, with an impatient gesture in the direction of 
Long Ilkley : — “All the filthy crew — as was kings 
— aye, kings afore they was out o’ the mud as had 
spawned ’em.” And she turned, wrapping her arms 
round her like a cloak. 

“I’m sorry, Merwin,” Simpson felt the utter 
inadequacy of the words ; but the girl had vanished 
in the thickening snow, and after waiting and listen- 
ing for a moment he clambered wearily onto his 
pony’s back and rode home : shivering and infinitely 
depressed. 

“It’s a damned rotten world,” he complained 
huskily to Finch, who found him next day crouching 
over the fire in his own room, almost inarticulate 
with a heavy cold. “And of all fool games, the worst 
of all is interfering with other people’s affairs.” 

197 


SIMPSON 


“More particularly love affairs,” remarked Finch 
sagely. “Blowing hot one moment and cold the 
next. By Jove, George, but you ’ve got the benefit of 
the latter, to judge by after effects. As for Strang — 
Strang ’s an ass.” 

“What the devil do you know about it?” 

“Every one knows, down to the smallest model 
who comes to sit to me between school hours. 
Strang! of all people, and with that jolly primitive 
crew! Though, by Jove, the Ilkley people have got 
their knives into them.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they don’t dare to do what the gipsies 
do — namely, poach. So they ’re literally bursting 
with indignation on our account. That ’s the fun- 
niest thing, on our account — ours! Think of it, 
George! We who have simply paid for the right to 
poach on other people’s land ! But the feudal feeling 
is very strong in this dear old country of ours.” 

“And cheap,” added Simpson bitterly. “Good 
God! Finch,” he went on with a sudden memory of 
the gipsy girl, of her wealth of passionate love: — 
“it’s awful to think of the waste of feeling: of the 
narrowness — the humbug.” 

“And the skim milk and water dribbled into the 
fine old bottles, meant to hold the wine of human pas- 
sion. By Jove, George, I shall never forget the look 
of that girl the night she came here. I only wish she ’d 
given me the chance Strang got. But she did n’t, 
worse luck — would n’t as much as look at me.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


GILBERT STRANG FLINGS HIS BLACK BOWLER OVER 
THE WINDMILL 

Late on the evening of the same day that Simpson 
and Merwin had talked together, a dismal cortege 
toiled slowly through the thickening snow, up the 
steep incline from Long Ilkley: passed by Little 
Ilkley and pushed on : up the rise towards the forked 
roads, where the bibulous cab-driver had drawn 
rein, some eight months earlier. 

But now there was no hint of distance visible: 
even the high hedge at either side of the road was 
lost to view : while the lantern hanging in front of the 
gipsies’ van flickered like a drunken eye through the 
thick cloud of steam, flecked with snowflakes, which 
hung over the old grey’s back. 

Behind the van came a spring cart, its broken shaft 
roughly patched with a sapling. This was drawn by 
a drooping chestnut pony, and piled high with tents 
and household utensils, upon which sat the two 
younger women — Dan’s wife, with her baby in her 
arms, and the elder children crouched whimpering 
beside her — while Sarah walked at the pony’s head ; 
and Dan himself stumbled and cursed along the 
199 


SIMPSON 


hedgeside, with a gun on his arm and a couple of 
yellow curs at his heels. 

Inside the caravan rode Auntie Rachel, with 
the other old woman, once Queen of the tribe, now 
a senile, mumbling wreck; while the hunchback 
perched on the step at the rear, among a swinging 
cluster of pots and pans — his shoulders higher than 
ever, in his efforts to keep warm — his hands tucked 
down inside the tops of his trousers. And Sam 
crouched on the front board : bending forward, peer- 
ing into the gloom — the reins held lightly in his 
hands — chirruping encouragement to the stumbling 
beast between the shafts. 

A hundred yards behind walked Merwin. She 
had wrapped a shawl tightly round her, pulling it 
pentwise over her head, and pressed forward dog- 
gedly against the wind : her mouth set in a hard line, 
her eyes burning. Auntie Rachel had been right — 
it was an ill place to live in ; an ill, grasping place to 
get away from. 

There was nothing left. She had scattered the 
ashes herself: the place should be bare of her and 
hers. If the sun shone in the morning, and Strang 
went to seek her, he would find nothing — perhaps 
suffer as she did. She did not care one way or the 
other. Dimitri had stuck pins into a toad and buried 
it in the Strang's family grave at the last full moon : 
he had told her that while they were drawing the 
tent-stakes, guessing something had gone wrong, 
thinking it would please her. But she did not care 
200 


GILBERT STRANG’S BLACK BOWLER 


one way or the other. The Strangs might all be 
dead as far as she was concerned. Nothing mattered : 
ever would matter again. 

How the women had clacked and chattered over 
the sudden move : but the men had done as she asked 
them without a word. They understood her, were of 
her blood; would kill Strang for her if she wished. 
But she no longer cared : had already felt too much 
that day. All she wanted was to reach Burlaps, 
where there was an old camping-ground ; to creep 
into the van beside her grandmother and sleep ; for 
she was conscious of no feeling beyond an infinite 
weariness. 

Presently she imagined she heard some one calling 
and stopped : then went on — thinking it was only a 
peewit : stopped again as it sounded more distinctly ; 
and saw the light of a lantern come tilting up the hill 
towards her. Then, with a sudden wild rush of blood 
through her veins — like the coming to life of some 
one already dead — she heard her own name. 

“Merwin! Merwin!” And in a swinging circle of 
light she saw Strang staggering towards her. 

He must have come straight from his business, for 
he was all in black ; a tightly fitting black overcoat, 
and a bowler hat on the back of his head, in strange 
contrast to his tortured face. 

“ Merwin ! Merwin ! Oh, thank God ! ” He caught 
at her arm and pressed against her, trembling from 
head to foot. “ I was at my office, I left early: I was 
horribly frightened at what I ’d done.” He pulled out 
201 


SIMPSON 


his handkerchief and wiped it over his forehead, 
which was running with sweat. “ What are we to do? 
— God only knows what we ’re to do. But when I got 
to the camp and found you gone — everything white, 
even the place where the fire had been — I went 
mad, and I ’ve run — run all the way.” 

“Why did you come?” The girl spoke harshly, 
though, with a movement of instinctive tenderness, 
she had flung out an arm to support him. 

“I don’t know — it’s beyond me.” He spoke 
almost pettishly. “All the day my blood’s been call- 
ing for you — but I promised Simpson.” 

“The little man — that good little man? You 
told him to buy me off.” 

“I don’t know what he said — he twisted my 
meaning.” 

“No. He knew me better than you did — he told 
me a’cause you’d bidden him.” 

“What was I to do, Merwin? What was I to do? 
God knows I wanted to do right; to make it easier 
for you.” 

“Well, I’m going now; you’re quit o’ me.” And 
she half-turned. But this time it was Strang who 
flung his arms round her, with the sudden strength 
of despair. 

“I can’t let you go! That’s why I’m here. All 
the day it’s been growing on me. When I left the 
office I walked to the camp, but when I found you 
gone, I ran. I asked every one on the way, I did n’t 
care who knew — I ran like a dog! And now, what ’s 


GILBERT STRANG’S BLACK BOWLER 


to be done?” He fell a little back and stared at her 
vacantly, as if half dazed by physical exhaustion and 
stress of feeling. 

‘ ‘ Go back, Gilbert Strang ; go home to your mammy 
and your lady sisters.” 

“ But I can’t go back! I can’t go back! Every one 
saw me, would know; they’re all talking about it: 
sitting over their tea talking by now — don’t I 
know their ways? Besides” — here he suddenly 
veered, with all the indecision of a weak man: “I 
can’t settle to my work, I can’t do anything. I 
thought it would be better if you went — but now 
I know differently. Perhaps if you were near and I 
could always go to you, it would be easier. What do 
you think, eh, Merwin? My dear, my dear, how 
warm your breast is in this cold. God! how. I love 
you and need you.” 

“Stand back a little an’ tell me. Why have you 
come?” 

“ Because I tried to do what was impossible — to 
let you go. But I can’t — I tried, for both our sakes. 
For yours, too, Merwin ; I swear it, for I know I’m a 
poor sort of fellow; you’d be better without me.” 

“Well, now” 

“If the rest of them were to go on, and you lived 
somewhere in Addley ; it ’s larger than Market Chari- 
ford, and I’m often there on business — no one 
would know. After a little people would forget I ’d 
run after you ; think I wanted to speak with one of 
your men — some point of law.” 

203 


SIMPSON 


“And pretend we were naught to each other.” 
The memory of Simpson’s words flashed through the 
girl’s mind : all the misery and inevitable disillusion- 
ment which he declared that deception brings in 
its train. “No, I’ll not do it. Go home, Strang, 
go back to your own people, an’ let me go to 
mine.” 

“ No, no! Never, I ’ll shoot myself first. I ’ll shoot 
myself if you go.” 

“It’s the only way, my rei, the only way left. 
Let me go, or I ’ll call to Dan on ahead.” 

“ I won’t let you go ! ” He caught her as she turned, 
and holding her tightly, with her shawl twisted 
round her, bent back her head and kissed her again 
and again upon the lips. “That’s life! How can I 
let you go, my woman, my woman ! I ’ll marry you, 
anything, to have you, to keep you.” 

The girl pushed him a little back, and peered at 
him desperately, her hands upon his breast. 

“ I can’t trust you.” 

“ But I will — I can’t go back alone. I ’ll go with 
you; we’ll be married at Burlaps. They’ll get used 
to it, take it for granted, once we’re married. My 
mother and sisters will put you in their ways. It’s 
the best thing, the only thing now.” 

“You may follow if you will.” With a proud toss 
of her head Merwin shook herself free from his arm, 
turned and walked ahead of him ; her eyes swimming 
in tears, fixed straight in front of her. 

For a while they moved on in silence: miserably 
204 


GILBERT STRANG’S BLACK BOWLER 


enough, with a full yard between them. Then he 
pushed on a little and touched her arm. 

“How far is it to Burlaps?” 

“A matter of three miles now.” She answered 
shortly. 

“We may as well walk together, since we’re going 
to be together the rest of our lives.” 

Without a word Merwin slackened her pace and 
he drew to her side. Then again, after a moment or 
two’s silence, he touched her arm; slipped his own 
inside it; and, his passion revived by the human con- 
tact, pressed close against her shoulder. 

“ Merwin, we have only ourselves ; let us be happy. 
We’ll make our own world; not care what other 
people think; only love me.” 

“ I do love you.” 

“ I know that, and when we are married — ” 

Suddenly she turned to him and flung her arm 
round his shoulder, encompassing him with a warm 
rush of human love. “Marry me soon, soon, man,” 
she whispered, her voice broken, the hot tears 
streaming down her face. “I’d never have told you, 
only you spoke the word yourself : would never have 
asked. But marry me soon, soon, Gilbert Strang; 
for there’s a child o’ yours beneath my heart, an’ 
we’ll be needin’ you sore.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE NEWS OF THE SECOND DESERTER REACHES THE 
CLUB, AND BANKS’S YOUNG LOVE IS TEMPORA- 
RILY NIPPED IN THE BUD 

Desmond, frozen out from his own sanctum, which 
faced into the very teeth of the wind, had brought his 
writing down to the library. That was at two o’clock. 
Now it was close on five, and not a single word had 
been spoken. Not that Simpson wanted to talk; for 
his brain felt thick and woolly; his chest was sore 
with coughing. Besides which he was feeling out of 
tune with the world: out of tune even with Foun- 
tains: an unseemly blot on the beauty of the place: 
very old and very much a failure. 

Mrs. Bliss had insisted on swathing his throat 
with flannel: there was a mysterious draught from 
somewhere, and he sat huddled together with a rug 
drawn over his shoulders. It was unthinkable, that 
life should ever again hold any possible romance; 
and with a groan — which caused even the absorbed 
Desmond to raise his head — he visualised the slim, 
rounded neck and white shoulders of the lady of his 
dreams: confronted with such a contrast that the 
corners of his mouth drooped, his pleasant face 
sagged into lines of infinite dejection. There might 
206 


YOUNG LOVE NIPPED IN THE BUD 


come a time when he would realise that all mortals 
are subject to occasional colds — that even a god- 
dess may, perchance, be reduced to sniffing — but at 
present the thought was far from him, and life seemed 
uncommonly dismal. 

Presently Finch and Gale came home from shoot- 
ing, and Jervis brought the tea, arranging the tray 
with fussy minuteness ; placed a little table by Simp- 
son’s side with his own special large cup : then, hesi- 
tating a little, on pretence of tidying the littered 
room, gravitated towards Finch, who was always 
ready to listen to gossip of a sufficiently pungent 
nature: stooped to pick up a pair of gloves, and 
remarked in a low voice : — 

“Did you hear as how Mr. Strang was back, sir? ” 

“Strang! I did n’t know he had gone away!” 

Jervis coughed deprecatingly and again stooped, 
this time to gather some of Desmond’s scattered 
papers. 

“After that there gipsy lot, sir.” 

“Jervis ! damn you ! Why can’t you leave my stuff 
alone? ” broke in Desmond angrily. “I’d just got it 
all sorted out.” 

“Beg pardon, sir — I thought as how it was on 
the floor — ” 

“That’s where it was meant to be. All right, give 
it to me now.” And he took the loose sheets from 
the man; laid them on the top of another pile, and 
sat tapping with the end of his pen on the blotting- 
paper: his black brows bent, his wide grey eyes 
207 


SIMPSON 


struggling to follow the unfinished thought, which 
the others had broken in upon. 

“Well, what about Mr. Strang, — eh, Jervis?” 
asked Finch, moving over to the fire, and standing 
with his back to it, his cup in his hand. 

The man hesitated. He had meant to tell his 
story in a low aside to Finch, leave him to repeat it, 
and was confused by the sudden publicity: caught 
Simpson’s watery eye full upon him, and stam- 
mered: “It’s nothing, sir, nothing of any impor- 
tance.” 

“Come on, get out with it,” urged Finch. 

“Please, sir.” Jervis looked at Simpson, to whom 
the servants had one and all accorded the position of 
absolute master. “ It seems as yesterday week when 
the gipsies left Long Ilkley, Mr. Strang he followed 
them. A dreadful state he was in, too, from all 
accounts, askin’ every one he met which way they 
was gone; folks reckoned he’d got a sort o’ case 
against them for all this poaching as they tells of: 
or else the wench as he was carryin’ on with — 
excusin’ your presence, sir — had made off with his 
watch.” 

“I don’t see that what other people think has 
anything to do with your story,” put in Simpson 
huskily. 

“No, sir, I beg pardon, sir. For as it turns out he 
was after her, to marry her. An’ did, by special 
license an’ all, at Burlaps: telegraphing home to say 
as how he was kept away on business. Went to 
208 


YOUNG LOVE NIPPED IN THE BUD 


Brighton, sir, honeymooning. An’ only yesterday 
evening walked in upon Mrs. Strang and the young 
ladies with the gipsy wench at his heels.’ * 

“Good Lord! married her? Well, he’ll have his 
hands full; what a marriage!” exclaimed Finch. 

“Jolly lucky to get such a wife,” put in Gale: “a 
miserable specimen like that. A fine girl, a girl who 
has lived in the open; that’s the way to keep fit. 
I only wish — ” he spoke half bitterly, half en- 
viously, his prominent cheek-bones dashed with a 
bright spot of colour — then broke off coughing; a 
hard rasping sound, very different from Simpson’s 
throaty cough. 

“Jervis.” It was Simpson who spoke, and the 
man jumped to attention. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You know that Mr. Strang was a member of this 
Club.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ I say was, because the fact of his being married 
prevents him from belonging to it any longer; though 
it does not prevent him coming here whenever he 
pleases, pid remaining our friend. And remember 
this: any disrespectful mention of Mrs. Gilbert 
Strang in the servants’ hall will mean disrespect to 
me — to all of us” — he glanced round at the other 
men, who*nodded gravely: “and to our friend. I 
believe that’s the motor; see if it’s Mr. Banks come 
back — and Mr. Parrifleet — Mr. Parrifleet’s room 
ready, eh?” 


209 


SIMPSON 


“Yes, sir,” answered Jervis, and departed, only 
too glad to be gone. 

The next moment Banks billowed into the room 
— his broad face crimson, puffing and blowing as 
though he had raced his own excitement: while 
Parrifleet slid in behind him, nodded to the others, 
and with his usual air of detached ease slipped into a 
chair by Simpson’s side; then sat gazing into the 
fire as though he had been there for months. 

“What do you think of this now? Good Lord!” 
burst out Banks: — “think of those poor things! 
Pretty state of affairs, — eh, what ?” 

“What poor things — who have you run over 
now, Banks? You’ll be getting your license taken 
away from you if you don’t look out,” remarked 
Finch. 

“Do you mean to say you don’t know? Wait a 
moment till Jervis has gone — doesn’t do to talk 
of those sort of things before servants, — eh, what? 
Do you mean to tell me you don’t know?” he went 
on, as the man left the room : straddling across the 
hearth ; beating up the entire circle into a species of 
whirlpool, of which he himself was, as usual, the 
centre. “That poor old Mrs. Strang! Those poor 
girls! Awful misfortune for them: fellows ’ull fight 
shy of the family now ; spoilt their chances, — tut, 
tut! And Strang! Strang, of all people!” 

“I always knew there was something desperate 
about him,” put in Finch sarcastically. 

“Well, by Jove, he ’s done for himself now. What 
210 


YOUNG LOVE NIPPED IN THE BUD 


do you think? Married, actually married!” Banks 
having thrown his bomb gazed round at them all, 
his protruding eyes opened to their widest, his 
cheeks puffed out. “ Married ! ” 

“ Unprecedented villainy ! ” 

“And to whom! By God, Simpson, the selfish- 
ness of some people. If it had n’t been for — for my 
previous experience, if I had n’t learnt to do nothing 
rashly, I might be brother-in-law, mark you! — well, 
not exactly, but sort of ways brother-in-law — to a 
gipsy. A gipsy! What do you think of that now! 
That girl ! actually that girl who came here the night 
of your confounded dinner, Simpson”; and he 
turned a denouncing eye upon his friend. “That 
damned dinner! I was always against it, and I was 
right ! That was the beginning of it all, actually the 
beginning of it all.” 

“Of what?” enquired Finch blandly. 

11 Good Lord! haven’t you been listening to what 
I said? But I suppose it’s nothing to you, with 
your beastly Socialistic ideas, that Strang should go 
and disgrace himself by marrying a gipsy. Rather 
clever, Bernard Shawish, — eh, what? The only 
wonder is that you had n’t heard about it, Simpson ; 
first thing we heard. Every one talking of it at the 
station, — eh, what, Parrifleet?” 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t see what there’s to make all this fuss 
about — a fine healthy girl. Talk of eugenics — ” 
began Gale. 


21 1 


SIMPSON 


“No one talks of eugenics unless they Ve got a bee 
in their bonnet,” interrupted Banks. “A disgusting 
subject I call it, — eh, what?” 

“Matrimony’s like ripe cheese; it won’t bear 
looking into too closely,” remarked Finch. 

“ What a story it would make — ” put in Desmond. 
“Not a novel; it would n’t run to that, — at least, 
I don’t think so, — but a thing of about fifty thou- 
sand words ; for the Cerise Library or something like 
that.” 

“Well, what are they going to live on, — eh, 
what?” demanded Banks. “People won’t trust a 
fellow like that with their affairs. If he can’t manage 
his own, he won’t be likely to manage theirs. You ’ll 
have to look into things a bit, Simpson.” 

“ By Jove, it would be worth seeing. That pagan 
woman in the Strang’s museum of antiquities,” 
cried Finch. “I’ll go over and call; will you come, 
Banks?” 

“Better not, — eh, what? One does n’t want to 
get mixed up in that sort of thing, you know. What, 
my third cup? Oh, well, on an occasion like this: 
when you think of the news I ’ve brought, I deserve 
it — eh, what?” 

“I’ll come, Finch. Copy — you know — fine 
contrast — uncommon situation!” put in Des- 
mond. 

With a sudden movement George Simpson rose, 
and pulled his rug about his shoulders. Then he 
stood for a moment and surveyed them; his heavy 
212 


YOUNG LOVE NIPPED IN THE BUD 

chin thrust forward, his genial face almost savage 
in its scorn. 

“What a lot of cads you all are! You, Banks, 
frisking round anything in petticoats, like mutton 
dressed lamb. And you, Finch, with your talk of 
art and ideals — and Desmond, pretending to realise 
the — the” — he stammered a little over the unu- 
sually poetical expression — “deeper things of life, 
and all that rot. Here ’s a fine woman with a heart 
and a soul, and feelings like the rest of us — a jolly 
sight more if the truth was known. And a man that 
has dared to do the straight thing — take the reins 
in his own hands for once in his life — and you cack- 
ling and pecking like a lot of old hens over a muck- 
heap.” His voice broke huskily, and he moved 
towards the door, one comer of the rug trailing 
behind him. Then he turned again, his face purple 
over the scarlet flannel. 

“Fingering over other people’s lives as though 
they were a jig-saw puzzle,” he spluttered furiously, 
and slammed the door behind him : opened it again 
to release an imprisoned corner of the fringed rug: 
choked over a devout “damn,” and was gone. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM; AND THE SUFFERING CONSE- 
QUENT UPON FORCING SQUARE PEGS INTO ROUND 
HOLES 

It seems as if the human soul and mind is endued 
with a certain focus — in much the same fashion as 
the human eye — which renders nothing so nerve- 
racking, and so difficult, as the continuous effort to 
change the habitual way of looking at life, and all 
that appertains to it. 

Merwin Strang was long-sighted : she saw every- 
thing in the large, clearly and coarsely : she thought 
and felt, loved and hated in the large. 

The intricate machinery of domestic life was a 
mystery to her: meals merely meant something to 
eat; and she would as lief as not sleep in the open, 
upon the bare ground, with a rug around her. Time 
was measured by night or day, spring, autumn, 
winter, summer; and she realised nothing of the 
tyranny of hours and minutes — breakfast at a 
quarter to nine; lunch at a quarter-past one, tea at 
half-past five ; set times for going to bed and getting 
up. All apparently fixed by unalterable laws, for 
which there seemed no special reason. 

She felt as though she was in a tangle of cobwebs ; 

214 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 

each thread fine as air, yet hampering her every 
step. 

In addition to this, and even more difficult to bear, 
was the realisation that all the things on which she 
had prided herself — counted as her best assets — 
were worse than useless; even regarded as draw- 
backs: her magnificent health, and strength of lung 
and muscle, the swiftness with which she could run, 
the distance her voice would carry. Even the accom- 
plishments which she had imagined as being dear to 
the heart of all Gorgios — sweeping, cooking, wash- 
ing — were not allowed ; nothing more than a little 
dusting: the exasperating fiddling over what she 
regarded as absolutely useless rubbish; old china 
and such like, only fit for the rubbish-heap. 

Strang, with all the curious bravado of a weak and 
timid man, had not announced the marriage till he 
and his wife walked in upon Mrs. Strang and her 
daughters; sitting at their tea in the dining-room, 
where they always took it when alone. 

[ With most people there would have been a furious 
scene, in which the young wife would have felt more 
or less at home. But neither then nor at any other 
time was there anything of the sort, save one-sided 
storms of Merwin’s raising. 

She was merely invited to sit down and take tea; 
while Lydia was bidden to tell Mary to light a fire 
in the spare room, and get the groom to help carry up 
Mrs. Gilbert’s box: a decent trunk with a few simple 
clothes in it which Strang had chosen at Brighton. 

215 


SIMPSON 


“You must forgive my not putting you straight 
into the front room,” said the old lady; “if my son 
had been pleased to give me a little notice, ac- 
quainted me with his marriage — not that I am 
complaining; he is of age, the house is his own, and 
I am not accustomed to any consideration from my 
own family — I would have had it ready for you. 
But by to-morrow I shall have moved all my things : 
you must excuse me for this one night.” 

“Oh, don’t you mind — I’ll do fine anywhere,” 
protested the bride. She glanced piteously across 
the table towards her husband, saw that his head 
was bent over his plate; then turned towards the 
two sisters-in-law, to be met by a blank, irrespon- 
sive stare, the result — in Lydia’s case — of mere 
amazement and fright, and again murmured some- 
thing about “doin’ anywhere.” 

“ I was merely explaining,” remarked Mrs. Strang 
coldly. “Will you take something more — no? 
Then if you have finished, perhaps you would like 
to see your room. Lydia, please to show Mrs. Gil- 
bert to her room.” 

Lydia obeyed: lit a candle in the hall; a faint 
point of light reflected dimly in the yellow marbled 
walls, polished floor and mahogany, just touching as 
she moved the stuffed birds in their shining glass 
cases, stiffer than any birds Merwin had ever seen. 
After a little she began to feel like one of them her- 
self : to wonder if her own eyes had grown as vacant 
and staring. 


216 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 

When they reached the bedroom, Lydia glanced 
round in an embarrassed manner, as if not knowing 
what to say. Then her eye caught the box. 

“I see Mary’s unstrapped your valise. You have 
candles — towels — soap? No, no soap; how stupid 
of Mary!” she said, as if relieved at finding some- 
thing to do; and disappeared in search of it, return- 
ing with two cakes. 

“ Gilbert likes brown Windsor best, but I like 
violet, so I brought you one of each. I ’m afraid it 
will be very uncomfortable for you without a dress- 
ing-room; but — but — ” she hesitated a moment, 
and flushed all over her pretty faded face, then darted 
forward her head and kissed the new-comer — a 
pecking salute on the cheek : the only sort of kiss any 
Strang had ever known till Merwin herself taught 
Gilbert Strang what life could mean : — 

“I hope you won’t mind Mamma’s manner. We 
are all a little afraid of Mamma; at least, Gil- 
bert and I are ; Emma ’s different. But she means 
to be kind — you must believe she means to be 
kind.” 

“ Aye,” said Merwin : standing before the fireplace, 
gazing down into the crackling flames with sombre, 
too far-seeing eyes. 

“Anyhow,” — Lydia spoke quickly, and almost 
in a whisper, as if afraid of being heard. “It’s his 
house, you’ll be mistress here: and if Gilbert loves 
you — ” 

“That’s all I want,” the young wife flung round 
217 


SIMPSON 


with a fierce gesture of her hands, from which the 
other shrank back with a little frightened movement. 
“Any one may be mistress here, so far as I care. 
What is a house but bricks and mortar? It ’s love as 
makes a home. Nothing don’t matter as long as we 
have each other: ourselves an’ our love, that’s all 
we ’re needing — his home my arms by night, my 
heart by day; that’s home to him. An’ for me, love 
— love — an’ the hope ’neath my heart.” 

Lydia, half out of the door, trembled and flushed. 
“Supper’s not till eight,” she said: “you’ll have 
time to rest. You need n’t even commence to get 
tidied till a quarter to: we don’t dress; sometimes 
just change our blouses, that’s all.” 

Closing the door, she groped her way across the 
dark landing, — for Mrs. Strang was sparing of 
lights : then hesitated at the top of the stairs, panting 
a little as though physically, as well as mentally, 
breathless. It had seemed indelicate in that house — 
where her brother had always lived as a bachelor — 
even to show his wife into a double-bedded room: 
she had stammered and grown hot over the very 
mention of the dressing-room ; but she felt she ought 
to explain; they always did when her Uncle James 
and his wife came to stay, though they knew the 
capacity of the little house to a nicety. 

But this creature was different. How she had 
flung wide her arms — with that inexplicable gesture 
as if drawing some one to her by the whole force 
of her being; and said out loud — so loud that the 
218 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 


servants might have heard if they had been on the 
landing — “my arms by night.” 

It was awful. Lydia felt as if she had been 
scorched ; while her heart beat more fiercely than it 
had ever done before. Though at the same time she 
was conscious of a wonder whether, after all, some 
such feeling was not only natural and real — to 
other people besides this wild gipsy woman — but 
sweeter, far sweeter, than anything she had ever 
known. 

Left alone in the prim room, — with the innu- 
merable china trays on the dressing-table, the faded 
photographs and texts in cork frames on the wall, — 
Merwin stood for a moment or so gazing into the 
fire, thinking backwards and forwards. Then, feel- 
ing intolerably oppressed and caged, she moved to 
the window, pulled back the curtains and flung it 
wide open. 

There was still the world outside: the good wide 
world : the clear frosty sky : the stars. 

Beneath her window shone the lights of Market 
Charlford. And far away in the distance was another 
cluster of lights which she knew to be Long Ilkley. 
And behind that a shallow hill topped with a fringe 
of trees : the hill beneath which the gipsies' camp had 
once stood. 

For a while she leant out, breathing in the clear 
air with great deep breaths, yearning towards the 
open. Then, with an air of great resolution, a stern 
tightening of her lips, she drew back : shut the win- 
219 


SIMPSON 


dow: pulled to the curtains, and opening her box 
began to take the things out and lay them in the 
drawers. Her wandering days were over. 

Only as she reached the bottom: found a small 
parcel, done up in tissue paper, and, seating herself 
on the edge of the bed, opened it, did her face soften. 
And for a while she sat gently smoothing out the 
fragile contents — a tiny baby’s cap of delicate lace 
— which she had seen in Brighton and bought and 
hidden away, so that even Gilbert might not see it. 

Meanwhile, down in the dining-room Emma locked 
away the tea-caddy and jam: hesitated a moment; 
then, in answer to a gesture from her mother, laid 
down the key on the table before her, and left the 
room. 

Ever since Strang entered the house his mother 
had maintained silence towards him, though address- 
ing Merwin with a thin, sub-acid courtesy. 

Now, he pushed back his chair, moved over to the 
mantelpiece, and, leaning one arm upon it, cleared 
his throat while his eyes searched the old lady’s 
impassive face. At last Mrs. Strang spoke; lifting 
the heavy bunch of keys: weighing them for a mo- 
ment in her hands : and then laying them again upon 
the table. 

“ Those are all the keys — if Mary stays she will 
show your wife where they belong: not that I expect 
her to stay, she has been used to gentlefolk. The 
books are on my writing-table, paid up to this last 
Monday.” 


220 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 


“That doesn’t matter now, Mamma, — there’s 
plenty of time to see about all that,” stammered 
Strang. 

“ I wish everything to be left in order. There ’ll be 
no time to-morrow.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that I and your sisters will be going to 
your Uncle James’s by the ten o’clock train, since 
you have been pleased to turn us out of the house.” 

“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” protested her 
son. “ I am only too anxious to — to arrange mat- 
ters,” he began again. 

But the old lady had risen without another word; 
and was turning to leave the room when Strang, 
conscience-stricken at what he had done, caught at 
her arm. “ Mamma, don’t take it like that. I know 
I was wrong ; I ought to have told you — but there 
were reasons.” 

“I have no wish to know your reasons. Take 
your hand away from my arm, please. And I must 
ask you and your wife to excuse my appearance at 
supper to-night. I have a great deal to see to. In 
fact, it would be better to bid you good-bye now — 
and I hope you won’t repent. That’s the best I can 
say for you, that I hope you won’t repent.” 

“Look here, Mamma; I can’t let you go like this. 
Merwin would be the last to wish it. At least stay a 
little till we can arrange something. You would feel 
differently in a few days — would get to” — the 
word “love” rose to Strang’s lips; but it had never 
221 


SIMPSON 


been used in this family, which knew no feeling that 
it expressed, and he substituted the more familiar 
‘‘like” — “like Merwin. I am sure you would like 
her. She is so warm-hearted, so — so” — he stum- 
bled, searching his mind for some trait of his wife’s 
which might appeal to her — “so genuine — honest.” 

“ I am glad you believe her an honest woman — 
from what I heard I gathered the contrary.” 

“What did you hear?” 

“I never repeat gossip.” 

“You guessed — suspected.” 

“ I guessed that it needed a fool like you to make 
an honest woman of her.” 

“Then, by God! you guessed wrong.” Strang 
flamed out in sudden defiance. “ I ’ve done her more 
harm than good.” 

“In any case, she has been the cause of the first 
oath that I ’ve ever heard cross your lips. There is 
no need to make a vulgar scene. I do not expect to 
be considered, but I would ask you to remember that 
my heart is not equal to such things. And now I will 
wish you good-night : perhaps you will be so good as 
to let Baines drive the luggage to the station in the 
morning.” 

“ Mother, I can’t let you go like this. There must 
be some settlement; some business arrangement — ” 
he hesitated, flushing, not liking even to mention 
money to this despotic woman who had always held 
the purse-strings, which were by right his. For Gil- 
bert Strang, senior, rebelling at the last moment 
222 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 


against that feminine tyranny which made his home 
a prison to him, had left all he owned to his son. 

“You should have thought of that before.” Mrs. 
Strang had taken out her sewing, while Emma put 
the things away, and now stood tapping gently on 
the table with her thimble. 

“Why should you go — why should anything be 
changed?” began Strang desperately. “After all, 
why should n’t you all be very happy together, once 
you shook down, got used to each other?” With a 
sense of inevitable defeat Strang felt that he was 
throwing overboard every decision to which he had 
been steeling himself during the short honeymoon: 
but still he plunged on : — 

“There is nothing to prevent it — room for all.” 

“I’ll not stay in any house where I am not mis- 
tress,” declared Mrs. Strang: with an air of such in- 
vincible decision that it never even occurred to her 
son to ask what she would be at his Uncle James’s. 

“But why change anything?” With a sudden 
plunge Gilbert made the last fatal concession: “Why 
should not you keep on the housekeeping? You 
understand it. Merwin is very young, very inex- 
perienced ; I ’m sure she ’d be only too glad — it would 
leave her more time — freedom.” 

For a moment or so Mrs. Strang hesitated: still 
tapping with her thimble, a sound which eat into 
Strang’s nerves; paralysing all thought, all faculty for 
looking forward ; banishing from his mind everything 
he had meant to say. She had no intention of re- 
223 


SIMPSON 


linquishing her position, of being defeated. She knew 
her son too well to fear that : realised his weakness, 
with the bitter scorn small-minded persons feel for 
any one they can bully. But still it would not do to 
appear too eager. 

“On one condition I will do as you ask me,” she 
said at last. “There is to be a perfectly clear under- 
standing : you will put it to your wife and I will abide 
by her decision. I keep the keys, manage the house, 
or I go.” 

The long pause had told upon Strang, and he drew 
a breath of relief ; for the moment it really seemed 
that his mother’s decision had been arrived at for 
the sake of himself and his wife. 

“I’ll ask her,” he said; and running upstairs he 
found Merwin still brooding over the little lace cap, 
which she folded away between her hands as he 
entered. 

“See here, my darling: I’ve been talking to my 
mother. I think she’ll come round — stay.” 

“But I thought you did n’t want her to stay — 
had decided — ” 

“ How can I turn them out? It would n’t be right 
— fair — ” protested Strang; as though it had been 
his wife’s suggestion, not his, that they should live 
alone. “And now I ’m sure she means to be nice to 
you. Then my sisters will be company, help to put 
you in the way of things : you must try and meet 
them halfway, adapt yourself.” 

“ Yes,” said Merwin rather blankly. She had risen 
224. 


A GIPSY IN VILLADOM 


to her feet and stood staring at her husband, trying 
to take in the meaning of all he said. 

Suddenly he caught her by the shoulders, drew 
her close, held her to his heart, and kissed her. “We 
shall have our own life — our own happiness ; and 
feel we’ve done no harm to any one, made no one 
miserable.” The mutual touch warmed them, drew 
them together : they were man and wife — free for 
the most wonderful intimacy, and what else mat- 
tered! Strang’s lips clung greedily to her lips and 
throat. 

“My beautiful wild thing, my darling,” he mur- 
mured; and for a moment they clung together in 
silence. Then he drew a little away. 

“I must go, now, and tell my mother. It is all 
right — is n’t it, dear? You don’t mind her keeping 
the keys and all that; you see she is old, and it means 
a lot to her.” 

“Of course not — what does it matter? Why 
should n’t she keep the keys if they’re hers?” asked 
the girl with a puzzled stare. Then she caught his 
face between her hands and gazed into his eyes 
passionately: “ Have n’t we each other? — an’ then 
there’ll be the — the child. It’s a strange, cold 
place — but we have each other; and the hope o’ 
what’s to come? ” she whispered. But Strang drew 
back as though suddenly chilled. 

“This room is cold ; have you the window bolted ? ” 
he enquired fussily, went to it and drew back the 
curtain. “No — I thought not; that’s what makes 
225 


SIMPSON 


the draught. Well, I ’ll go and tell my mother that 
it’s all right — that you don’t mind,” he said, and 
turning, left the room ; wondering how he could warn 
Merwin not to talk in that certain fashion about the 
coming of their child; to remember that they had 
only been two weeks married. 


CHAPTER XX 


A SOUL IN PRISON, AND A SMALL LIFE LOST 

Never was there such a menage as resulted from 
this rash agreement. In the strength of Merwin’s 
love lay her weakness: she was always giving in to 
try and please Gilbert, to conciliate the mother who 
had borne him; always trying to adapt herself: 
losing all her own force in the attempt. Occasion- 
ally she flamed up into one of her old haughty pas- 
sions ; but she was instantly ashamed of it — the 
very walls seemed to tremble at the sound of her 
voice, the chandelier shook; while old Mrs. Strang 
took advantage of this shame to tighten the twitch 
by which she held her daughter-in-law, to insinuate 
some complaint between husband and wife, to prise 
the rift in the lute a little wider. 

For very soon there was a rift. It began with trifles, 
which showed all the insistence of small things ; the 
wearing quality of the minute. 

Merwin loved to rise at dawn and go for long 
walks : but people wondered and talked. To be out 
so early was almost as suspicious as being out late. 
Stung on by his mother, Strang protested, and the 
early walks ceased. 

Walks at all, in her condition, were nothing more 
227 


SIMPSON 


or less than “indelicate,” hinted Mrs. Strang: and 
so, after a while, all walks were stopped. 

She loved the open air; felt suffocated in a close 
room. Strang liked to sleep with his window shut: 
beneath a pile of eider-downs and blankets. 

She did not care to eat unless she was hungry : the 
want of air in the dining-room sickened her. 

And nearly every day Strang, with a sense of in- 
jury, heard his mother remark that she was sorry 
she could provide nothing Mrs. Gilbert liked. It 
seemed to him that Merwin might have adapted 
herself better after all he had done for her. 

One day, Emma, with a sneer, suggested “hedge- 
hog.” But her mother did not let the remark pass: 
corrected her at once: insisted on her begging her 
sister-in-law’s pardon : Mrs. Strang was never rude. 
She was worse ; she was like an acid that bites to the 
bone. 

It was difficult to imagine what the girl must have 
suffered. If she spoke, mispronouncing any word, she 
heard it rightly repeated during the course of con- 
versation a few moments later; with a faint empha- 
sis. If she flared into a temper, Mrs. Strang and 
Emma froze into silence. If she was silent, it seemed 
as if they talked at her. 

She was awake long before dawn each morning: 
longing for the maid to come with the hot water, so 
she might get up : an agony of impatience in every 
limb. For she was restless beyond all words. Con- 
ceived and born in the open, her own expectant 
228 


A SOUL IN PRISON 


motherhood tormented her with a longing for space: 
for the open skies, particularly at night. 

But for her husband’s sake she stayed indoors as 
much as possible. Her baby would be born two 
months earlier than it ought to have been: people 
must be led to think it was a seven-months’ child: 
she must not appear to be prepared. But if she were 
much seen in public, all concealment would be im- 
possible. Strang himself impressed this on her ; for 
his conventionality killed all his pride of expectant 
fatherhood. 

Mrs. Strang had never vacated the large, airy 
front room. Sometimes, when Merwin tried to assert 
herself, — crudely enough, it is true, — the front 
room and the keys were, metaphorically, thrown in 
her face. Strang, however, always tired now, miser- 
ably ill at ease and longing for peace, would talk her 
round ; refuse to accept the sacrifice. Supporting the 
one he feared against the one who merely loved him. 
Merwin was always ready to forgive, to take him to 
her heart; he believed himself sure of her. With his 
mother it was different. He had never consistently 
defied her : did not know what would happen if he did ; 
and in that want of knowledge lay his fear and her 
power. 

He still loved his wife: but the greedy sex passion, 
which had swept him off his feet, was gone, or lying 
fallow. All the flame seemed to have flickered out of 
life ; he was depressed and weak ; and somehow — re- 
membering that there was peace in his house before 
229 


SIMPSON 


Merwin’s coming, and forgetting the negative nature 
of that peace — grew to associate all his troubles 
with his wife. 

It was a bitter, cheerless February, which the 
lengthening days only served to accentuate. Mer- 
win almost lived in the little bedroom — stuffed up 
by over-large furniture — suffering from the cold 
as she had never suffered in the open: sitting for 
hours staring out in front of her ; or sewing — clum- 
sily enough — at the tiny garments in which no one 
took any interest : eating her heart out with longing 
for her own people : turning over and over in her mind 
all possible means of renewing Strang’s flagging love : 
cogitations which resulted in a shamelessness that 
repulsed him. 

Then, one night at supper, Emma tanged too 
sharply on some overdrawn string: it was a question 
of grammar, the use of the double negative. 

Mrs. Strang reproved her daughter; but she 
merely did it to draw greater attention to the slip, as 
Merwin well knew. She had disregarded or suffered 
such things, again and again in silence. But suddenly 
it seemed as if all the blood in her body went to her 
head; surging like molten lead up the back of her 
neck. It had been the first springlike day: she had 
been feeling more cheerful, was trying to talk pleas- 
antly; and somehow the insult bit as it had never 
done before. 

“I’ll not speak at all, if I can’t open my mouth 
without being set upon,” she said. 

230 


A SOUL IN PRISON 


Emma tossed her head and gave a half laugh, 
while Mrs. Strang looked at her sideways, as if she 
were some strange animal beneath contempt. But 
Lydia flushed hotly: she wished her sister-in-law 
would not make such rash assertions. She would 
have to give in : have to speak : and every triumph 
rendered her mother more tyrannical. She had a curi- 
ous feeling for her brother’s wife ; half hating her — 
because she had ousted her beloved Mrs. Reannie, 
or so the simple creature thought, not realising that 
the two could never even touch each other in his 
mind — yet, in a way, loving her : persistently cham- 
pioning her, as far as she dared. 

Strang shrugged his narrow shoulders. He had 
got into a habit of taking it for granted that women 
were always quarrelling. But the action put the 
finishing touch to his wife’s fury of resentment, all 
the greater for its slow growth : for nothing is so em- 
bittering as injustice. And she sat through the meal 
in silence: then got up without a word and left the 
room. 

A couple of hours later he went up to bed : turned 
the handle of her door gently, thinking she might 
be asleep, and found it locked. 

“Merwin — Merwin, open the door.” He whis- 
pered the words with his face close to the panelling : 
wondering what his mother would think — a specu- 
lation which obsessed his every waking thought. 
Then he repeated pettishly, “ Merwin, open the door; 
make haste — it’s cold here.” 

231 


SIMPSON 


“There’s more cold a’ tween us nor that, Gilbert 
Strang.” His wife spoke with no effort to modulate 
her voice. 

“Why, what’s the matter? Open the door — ” 

“The matter is I ’m tired o’ blowing dead embers. 
You can go — go to your dressing-room .” She 
laughed harshly as she spoke. 

“What nonsense — open the door at once. Do you 
hear me? Open the door at once,” he said: rattled 
the handle again, and paused to listen, but there 
was no answer. 

“ Don’t be a silly, — Merwin. I shall be very angry. 
Merwin, what are you thinking of, — is this the way 
to treat your husband? ” His voice was almost plain- 
tive. But still there was no response, and after a few 
more efforts he gave it up; and had turned, thinking 
that he would roll up in a rug on the dining-room sofa 
— already rehearsing in his own mind what excuse 
he would make to the maid in the morning — when 
Mrs. Strang opened her door. 

She was in her dressing-gown, her face looking 
more wrinkled and dried up than ever, her twist of 
yellowish hair screwed up into a tight knot at the 
top of her head. 

For a moment she peered at him, her candle held 
high. 

“ Merwin ’s not well. I was going to sleep on the 
dining-room sofa,” stammered Strang: “it’s all 
right, Mamma; don’t let me put you out.” 

With a beckoning jerk of her chin the old woman 
232 


A SOUL IN PRISON 


turned and walked back into her own room; while 
her son followed, knowing what was going to happen. 
Then he unlocked the door of the dressing-room 
which led out of it, and which still held the bed 
where he had slept till he went to college ; unable to 
enter or leave his own room without passing through 
hers. 

“There are blankets and pillows. You can do 
without sheets — ” she hesitated and in his own 
mind he supplied the words “for this one night.” 
But after a moment’s pause she added — “till to- 
morrow,” lit the gas, and turned and left the room, 
shutting the door after her. 

For nearly three weeks Strang slept in the little 
room. Sometimes he thought if he went to the 
locked door during the night that Merwin would 
relent and let him in. And night after night he lay 
in bed, planning to do this; but was ashamed of his 
mother hearing him pass through her room: per- 
haps return — defeated ; so that all his efforts at 
reconciliation resulted in a defiantly peremptory 
knock at his wife’s door each evening; while Mrs. 
Strang hovered about the landing, on pretence of 
putting out the lights. 

Meanwhile Merwin appeared only at meals, sit- 
ting in silence, and scarcely touching food; while 
the moment they rose from the table she returned to 
her own room, where they could sometimes hear her 
moving restlessly to and fro. 

She was not sulking: though her state of mind 
233 


SIMPSON 


would have been difficult to define. It was as if the 
torrent of her love had been dammed back: walled 
up by all the repression and slights which she had 
suffered, rendering not only speech but thought an 
impossibility. 

She yearned passionately towards her husband: 
but the very strength of her yearning made words 
all the more difficult. In addition to this, the con- 
ditions of life, the want of air and exercise, and the 
strong meat diet to which she had been accustomed, 
affected her health: she was ill, she was desperate. 
And like all sick and desperate animals she sought 
darkness and retreat ; often leaving the blinds in her 
room drawn all day. 

If Strang had taken her in his arms, laid his hand 
upon her — however roughly — she would have 
melted in a moment; but he never saw her alone, and 
lacked the courage to make any move beneath the 
watchful eyes of his mother and sisters. 

So time wore on till the second week in March, 
when one night he awoke to see her standing at his 
bedside. 

“ Get up — you must go for a doctor/’ She spoke 
in gasps, her face livid and distorted ; then turned to 
leave the room; feeling her way like a blind person, 
the candle all aslant in her hand. 

Through the open door Strang could see his mother 
sitting up in bed and staring. But for once he took 
no notice of her: huddled into some clothes, called 
Lydia, then stumbled his way downstairs and out 
234 


A SOUL IN PRISON 


to the stables: woke the groom, sent him for the 
doctor, and ran up to Merwin’s room to find her 
lying on the outside of the bed, huddled together, 
moaning. He covered her with a rug, then, after 
bending over her in utter helplessness, entreating to 
know what he should do, sat down at her side . 

After a while Lydia appeared, only a little less 
scared than he was — looking like a frost- wilted rose 
in her faded pink dressing-gown. She hovered about 
the room for a few minutes ; finally suggesting a hot- 
water bottle, and went down to the kitchen to light 
the gas and put on a kettle; noticing as she passed 
her mother’s room that the door had been shut. 

A few minutes later the doctor arrived; and just 
as dawn was breaking — ushering in a wind-swept 
March day — Gilbert Strang’s son was born : a true 
seven- months’ child, who flickered out into the world 
and died before the day. 

Going downstairs at about ten o’clock, on his way 
to get a cup of tea which Lydia had ready for him, 
Strang saw his mother through the open door of her 
bedroom : on her knees with a hot poker and a piece 
of blotting-paper, taking the wax out of the carpet, 
where her daughter-in-law had dropped it the night 
before. 

She must have heard Strang pause, but neither 
looked up nor spoke. And he did not see her again 
till next day ; when the orderly routine of life began 
once more, with his inevitable breakfast of bacon and 
eggs. 


235 


SIMPSON 


Merwin was desperately ill — as she was desper- 
ate in all else — and for nearly a week her life was 
despaired of. Even when that seemed secure, the 
doctor feared for her reason. But somehow she 
struggled through: maimed, bereft of youth and 
hope, all the magnificent buoyancy and strength 
which had distinguished her gone forever. 

Strang was with her constantly: full of pity and 
self-reproach ; shrinking from the sight of his mother, 
whom he now blamed for all that had occurred : al- 
most defying her: planning how — directly his wife 
was about again — he would make some other ar- 
rangement so that they might have their house to 
themselves. Still — as always — making the fatal 
mistake of putting off — awaiting the opportu- 
nity. 

For a little it seemed as if their old love might 
flame to life again. But Merwin was not of the kind 
that forgives easily. Not that she bore any malice — 
but the wound had gone too deep; she felt atro- 
phied, past all caring. 

If Gilbert himself had fallen ill now; if he had 
really needed her in any way, it would have been 
different. But he did not ; and — worst of all — he 
did not need the child. He was sorry for her trouble, 
but he did not in the least realise it ; and for his own 
part was relieved : felt it was all for the best, as his 
wife realised. 

So the old dreary routine commenced once more. 
Only with this difference: Mrs. Strang left Merwin 
236 - 


A SOUL IN PRISON 


alone. She had ceased to count : she could go where 
she liked ; do as she liked as far as she was concerned ; 
while even Emma realised that there was no pleas- 
ure to be got in tormenting such a dull, spiritless 
creature. And somehow Strang himself — though 
he was always kind, never spoke a harsh word — 
slipped into the way of ignoring her. 

Only Lydia tried to understand: endeavoured, in 
her timid, ineffectual way, to enter into the other 
woman’s life: even attempted to accompany her on 
the long walks which had recommenced, twittering 
along by her side, taking four steps to her one; fin- 
ally being left far behind ; for as Merwin’s brooding 
thoughts gathered, her stride lengthened, and she 
forgot her companion. 

In these days there were only two people to whom 
she ever willingly spoke; these were Simpson and 
Parrifleet. The former would often overtake her on 
his rides; and getting off his horse would walk by 
her side, with the reins over his arm: talking in his 
kind, genial fashion, just as he would talk to any one 
else — or so Merwin felt; not as if she were some 
strange wild animal. Then he was interested in her 
people, neither avoiding the subject, as some well- 
intentioned persons did, nor questioning her out of 
malice : but really interested. And not only in them, 
but in all she could tell him of nature, and of life 
in the open. 

When she was with him she felt herself again; 
strong, and almost happy, and went home believing 
237 


SIMPSON 


that all might yet be well ; that she had shaken her- 
self free, once and for all, from the sense of oppres- 
sion which terrified her. But the moment she en- 
tered the house it seemed as if a thick black curtain 
fell between her and the rest of the world: stifling 
her: deadening thought and feeling and speech. 

Parrifleet she often visited : sitting, sometimes for 
hours, silent in his little kiosk, while he was at work ; 
for by now the neighbourhood had found him out, 
and kept him busy; while the room at Clifford’s Inn 
was only used for business appointments. 

They had much in common : instincts, beliefs, even 
fears: though the man’s nature was optimistic and 
sunny, while hers was sombre. It seemed as if he 
saw so far as to realise that nothing really mattered, 
while she only saw far enough to be frightened. 

She had foreseen the loss of her child — “the 
death o’ love — an’ the pale flower that withers with 
it — ” the very first night she saw Strang; though in 
the interim she had half-forgotten it. She had seen 
other things, too, which haunted her ; and yet never 
to the ultimate end. 

But for all his cheerfulness Parrifleet was not so 
good a companion for her as Simpson, for he was less 
normal : and it was for Simpson alone that her mood 
ever lifted: till the summer came again and the 
gipsy camp was once more pitched in the blind lane 
beyond Long Ilkley. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Desmond’s book reaches a triumphant ending 

Desmond’s book was finished. 

Towards the end he had scarcely left the tiny den, 
nearly all octagonal window, which the other mem- 
bers of the Club — realising something more serious 
than fame to be at stake, though man-like never 
speaking of it — had assigned to him for a study. 

The days lengthened, the trees budded; the birds 
sang outside his window, while an outdoor life re- 
placed that of the fireside. The visits of other men 
to the Club became more and more frequent, as the 
country drew them. The May- fly rose; the tennis- 
courts were marked out : to have their lines washed 
away an hour later by a pelting April shower, while 
the sun laughed brazen-faced from behind the next 
cloud. Banks hovered tentatively round Lydia 
Strang once more, on pretence of loyalty to the fam- 
ily, “a livelier purple” shining upon his marvellous 
socks and ties. Kirkland and Van Rennen were still 
absent ; while long anxiety, and the call of spring in 
her blood, drew the warm colour from Julie’s cheeks, 
though hope was strong in her heart. 

Meanwhile Gale, who had coughed his way 
through the cold March winds buoyed up by the 
239 


SIMPSON 


hope of summer and the excitement of a large public 
building in Oxford, — which he hoped to make wor- 
thy of the traditions of the place, — seemed to have 
taken on him a new lease of life. And Parrifleet 
brooded over them all, with the sort of tenderness 
which is usually shown only to children, and so often 
and so desperately needed by grown-ups. For though 
spring was a marvellous time of growth, and of new 
life, it brought with it the pains of parturition : when, 
or so he declared, the pull of the planets upon frail 
humanity was almost more than it could bear. 

Desmond alone — unstirred by the celestial and 
fecundatory rays of what Parrifleet termed the 
Anima Mundi ; and equally irresponsive to the rush 
of sap through the boughs; the upward push of all 
growing things ; the new tumult of blood through the 
veins, accountable, maybe, for Banks’s fancy turn- 
ing, once more, to “ thoughts of love ” — sat, day after 
day, absorbed ; scarcely leaving his room ; re-reading, 
lingering over, polishing his work with loving care. 
Till, at last, nothing more was to be done. The book 
was finished, and he rose for the last time from his 
writing-table; mechanically straightening the edges 
of the sheets with that wistful feeling that comes 
to a mother when she sends forth her boy for the 
first time into the world of school, never to be quite 
her own again. 

Life had grown suddenly flat. All the bite, all the 
vitality seemed to have gone out of his work. And 
yet it had seemed such a good book while it was in 
240 


DESMOND’S BOOK 


the making. Every day he had run upstairs after 
breakfast, three steps at a time; and sat down at 
his writing-table, with a delightful boyish sense of 
hugging himself over what he knew was in store for 
him : waiting quite happily : sure that it would come : 
that unfailing influx of an alien power, which took 
up the story where it had been left the day before; 
just as one starts life afresh each morning on awak- 
ing: stringing him up to a fever of delight or tears 
— actual tears which streamed down his face as he 
wrote: driving his pen along; sweeping out of his 
hands the stiff-jointed plot which he had formed — 
how long ago? — breathing life into his men and 
women ; and setting them afloat upon a current over 
which he had lost every vestige of control. 

It was, indeed, what Parrifleet would call “pos- 
session”: the “overwhelming influx of the Divine 
Akase” — whatever that might be! 

And now it was all over. The question was what 
to do next? How in the world to dispose of his 
time? 

He lounged to the window and stared out of it, 
quite untouched by the pageant of spring below. 

Ten to one the publisher would pick the book to 
pieces: snip bits out of it to appease the libraries: 
bind it in red, which he detested. The wonder was 
that some representative of the English public 
did n’t tie a string to the little finger of every musi- 
cian, to jerk upon when the strains became too 
passionate or poignant: at present they seemed the 
241 


SIMPSON 


only people left free. Anyhow it was a rotten world 
for artists — for everybody with any soul. 

Simpson, with his coat off, was planting out seed- 
lings in one of the beds, beneath the window. How 
odd it seemed for any one to be interested in a thing 
like that. Desmond found himself wondering if 
there was ever any writer who had taken a success- 
ful stock-broker of forty-three as his hero. 

Still with his hands in his pockets he lounged down- 
stairs, and out into the garden. He did not mean to 
speak of his work — it was too newly dead. But as 
he stood over Simpson, gazing sombrely down at 
the broad, blue-shirted back, he heard himself — by 
some pressure of thought, quite apart from his own 
volition — announce the fact that the book was 
finished. 

“Well, that’s a mercy!” exclaimed the other, not 
even raising his head. “ By Jove ! That ’s something 
off your chest. I congratulate you, old fellow.” 

Groaning in spirit at the utter lack of human un- 
derstanding, Desmond moved on down the terrace 
steps and along the lawn; past the big chestnut, 
upon which sticky buds were beginning to show 
green, and down the steps in the sunk fence. Wander- 
ing on, more or less unconsciously through the park 
land, till he came, at last, to Parrifleet’s kiosk. 

The little man, with a glass fixed in his eye, was 
bent over a ring which Banks — the most super- 
stitious of all the Club members — had ordered 
from him. 

242 


DESMOND’S BOOK 


“ What is it now? ” enquired Desmond, by an enor- 
mous effort sheering away from the one subject 
which really interested him. 

Parrifleet laid down his tools, removed his glass 
and looked up. He did not often stop work for 
any newcomer, and the fact struck even through 
Desmond’s abstraction. 

“ It is a topaz — and is to be engraved with a fal- 
con,” he said: “a charm to attract love and sym- 
pathy. But, indeed, you seem more in need of such 
a thing than Mr. Banks. Tell me, what has gone 
wrong?” He looked up anxiously, unable to get rid 
of a weight of fear which always overhung him in 
connection with Desmond. 

“I’ve finished my book,” blurted out the other. 
He had laid his hand on the table as he bent over 
the jeweller’s work, and now Parrifleet touched it 
gently, with a caress like a woman’s; though at the 
same moment his face lightened with relief to hear 
that it was no worse. 

“That’s a wrench,” he said. “Our work is never 
quite our own, once it is out of our hands. No one 
else can ever put into it all that we have done; 
understand it as we do.” 

“Ah! you realise that?” Desmond perched him- 
self on the edge of the table ; his face eager, his whole 
attention once more engrossed in himself. 

“You see, it has taken so long: been more to me 
than anything I’ve ever done before: meant more. 
You know it was begun to make ‘ her’ proud of me.” 

243 


SIMPSON ; 

Parrifleet nodded. “To convince her that I was 
capable of doing quite impersonal work. I’ve lost 
sight of the end — the reason for it — dozens of 
times,” he added frankly. “But it was always there. 
And now the stimulus, the excitement, is over — and 
I don’t know how she’ll take it. Then they’ll be 
weeks fuddling over bringing it out. I feel all on edge : 
as if I could n’t bear it.” 

“Why don’t you let her see the manuscript?” 

“Because I want her to judge it along with the 
rest of the world : take it or leave it as she likes. I 
don’t mean to press it on her notice, use it as a plea. 
But meanwhile — ’Pon my soul, Parry,” he burst 
out, egotistical as all true workers, — “no one has 
any idea what it is! You now, for instance; any 
particular piece of work may take a few days, or a 
week — say a month at the most. And when you ’re 
not at work you live your normal life among your fel- 
lows — you can’t think it into being. But look at 
me ! For nine months I Ve never had a thought apart 
from this thing. And now it ’s done — and if Dor- 
othy turns me down I ’ll shoot myself ; ’pon my soul, 
I will ! Anyhow, the Lord only knows how we’ll live. 
I ’ll never write another book : I ’ve spent myself over 
this. And to think of it mouthed over by the great 
British public, with the mental digestion of babes 
— pap-fed. Now with your work it is different. 
No one can misunderstand that.” 

For a moment Parrifleet’s dark eyes rested on the 
young man’s overcast face with a curious expression, 
244 


DESMOND’S BOOK 


while his mouth curved in a half-sad, half-cynical 
smile. Then he bent again over his work. 

“ You have two copies; you got it typed in dupli- 
cate ?” 

“ Yes ! ” Desmond kicked dismally against the leg 
of the table. 

“Well, read one to us, while the other goes to the 
market. Read it in the evenings ; that ’s the time to 
get the true taste of things.” 

“Oh, it would bore you to tears! Besides, how 
could any one read anything before that ass Banks? 
And then Finch — ” 

“Well, to-night — and I believe to-morrow — 
there’ll be nobody but Mr. Simpson and myself.” 

“Simpson does n’t count.” 

“You’ve not reached him yet, or you wouldn’t 
say that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that, in spite of all his matter-of-fact 
exterior, his slow, quiet ways, he is beyond you all 
in idealism and tenderness. You write, Mr. Finch 
paints, Mr. Banks talks — but he feels. Outwardly 
you have a clean, commonplace, good type of busi- 
ness man: but there’s a subconscious self behind 
all that. He ’ll surprise you some day — get some- 
thing out of life you are none of you capable of 
achieving.” 

“All right, rub it in.” 

Parrifleet laughed. “The eternal boyishness of 
you artists. But try us to-night. After all,” be added 
245 


SIMPSON 

shrewdly, “we shall not be so very greatly below your 
average readers.” 

“I don’t see that a fellow has any right to inflict 
his outpourings on his friends,” replied Desmond. 
Then he added with sudden animation: “But there 
are bits — when Fielden, that’s the man, you know, 
gets tangled up with the girl ; is held back half be- 
lieving what he preaches. Where tragedy grows — 
spreads its wings over them and their world, darkens 
everything, shuts out everything. And then there ’s 
an old doctor I think you ’d like, Parry, I believe 
he’s good — ’pon my soul, I believe he lives.” 

“Well, after dinner to-night — and every night 
when we three are left to ourselves, — eh? ” And the 
little old man raised his glance to Desmond’s 
brightened face with the look of a very beneficent 
and tender parent. “The least you can do is to let 
us share your friendships.” 

“By Jove, they’re not all friendships by any 
means.” Desmond slipped from the table with an air 
of restored vitality. “There’s some strong stuff in 
it : I can tell you that, Parry. I say, what a morning 
it is. Too fine to stay shut up indoors — I’d no 
idea things were so forward.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE TRAGEDY WHICH TREADS ON THE HEELS OF 
MOST TRIUMPHS 

The first reading took place that night. At the 
commencement Desmond was nervous: and the 
story seemed to hang fire. But soon he shook into his 
stride ; and drew the two listeners on with him. 

Jervis brought in the tray with whiskey-and-soda, 
hesitated a moment or two, asked if there would be 
anything more that night, and departed. Again and 
again Simpson replenished the fire : while insensibly 
they drew a little closer, as the night grew chilly, till 
their knees almost touched round the hearth. 

But still Desmond read on, his chair turned side- 
ways so as to catch the light, his cheek pressed against 
the brown leather back, one long leg flung over the 
arm : while Parrifleet sat very still in the corner of the 
sofa, his knees up, with his frail white hands clasp- 
ing them, his head bent forward as if beneath the 
weight of brow and hair; his brilliant eyes, a little 
raised, fixed on the reader; dilating as Desmond’s 
voice grew fuller with any stress of feeling; and 
Simpson leant forward staring into the fire, his pipe 
gone out between his teeth. 

Eleven o’clock struck soon after Jervis left the 
247 


SIMPSON 


room; then half-past; twelve — half-past twelve; 
one — half- past one, and Desmond’s voice cracked 
harshly. For a few minutes he struggled on, upheld 
by his own ardour. Then he laid down the manu- 
script. 

“ I can’t manage any more.” 

He glanced round vaguely, mistily; then caught 
sight of the clock upon the mantel-shelf. 

“I say, you fellows, look at the time! I am 
sorry!” 

For a moment there was silence; while his eyes 
sought theirs with a sudden anxiety. 

“Well — ?” he was beginning, when Parrifleet 
leant forward and laid one hand on his knee. 

“I congratulate you, Mr. Desmond. I can’t tell 
you all that I have felt — thought, while you were 
reading it. But it lived and I lived in it.” 

“It’s a good thing.” Simpson rose and knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe. Then he turned towards 
Desmond, his eyes dim. “An amazingly good thing. 
By God, Desmond, you ’ve drawn the heart out of 
me : I ’d give all I have in the world to be able to do 
anything like that.” 

“It’s an inspiration,” said Parrifleet softly: “a 
creation. That man Fielden — ” 

“ No, there you ’re wrong,” put in Simpson. “ It ’s 
not a creation. It’s a portrait; the most vital, bril- 
liant portrait I’ve ever come across, Desmond.” 

“What do you mean?” The author jerked up his 
head like a restless horse, while his cheek flushed. 

248 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 

“ I took him from no one, nowhere — he's my very 
own.” 

“ Your own, I should think he was: created after 
your own image ; and you ’ve reason to be proud of 
him: a brilliant portrait.” 

“ I never intended — never thought — ” Desmond 
had sprung to his feet, and for a moment his eyes 
blazed defiance into Simpson’s face. Then, suddenly, 
he laughed. “By Jove, you’re right, it is like me! 
What do you think, Parry, — do you see it? Eh, do 
you see it?” he enquired excitedly. 

“Yes, I believe I do now. I was so absorbed in the 
story — in the whole trend of the character. But, 
of course, now I see. It is, as Mr. Simpson says, 
you — you yourself.” 

With a shout of exultation, Desmond flung round 
upon the hearth. “I set out to prove to Dorothy 
that I could be completely impersonal — you know 
I did, Simpson ! You put me up to it when I was so 
confoundedly hipped.” He was standing with his 
back to the fire now, one arm flung out along the 
mantel-shelf, his mobile Irish face glowing. “Now, 
look how it’s turned out! That’ll prove to her — ” 

“What — how?” 

“Why, that I can't be impersonal: that I use my- 
self, all my weaknesses and follies, just as unmerci- 
fully as I ’d use any one else. I say, Simpson, but it’s 
great ! — If I ’d done what I meant to do, I ’d never 
have succeeded half so well. You know Fielden ’s 
an utter ass in places, a bit of a blackguard, too, 
249 


SIMPSON 


but he ’s real, and he ’s me — me ! Ye gods ! What an 
eye-opener! That’ll show her how much I was to 
blame: nothing could be better.” 

The exhilaration held through two more readings ; 
even mitigated the annoyance of Gale and Finch’s 
presence at the last, which — going with a dash to 
the very end — terminated soon after ten of the 
third evening. 

Then came the drop. They were all unstinting in 
their praise and appreciation, even Finch controlling 
his wicked wit: perhaps a little moved, if the truth 
were told, for the tale ended on a true Celtic note of 
tragedy. But it was all no good: the brief flash of 
Indian summer was over. The book was really 
finished. There was nothing more left as far as he, 
Desmond, was concerned. 

“I’m done for, played out: I’ll never write an- 
other. It’s sapped me: I feel as empty as a drum. 
Awfully good of you fellows to have listened, been 
so jolly about it — an’ all that; but — look here, I 
think I ’ll go off to bed if you don’t mind. I ’ve got 
a rotten head,” he declared, and drifted, sombre- 
eyed and unsmiling, from the room. 

Next morning, soon after eight, Simpson was 
standing at his glass shaving, when there was a hur- 
ried tap at the door, which was flung open before he 
had time to reply. 

“ I say, Simpson ! I ’ve got it ! ” It was Desmond, 
his face alight, a joyous exhilaration irradiating his 
whole person. “A ripping new plot — such a book! ” 
250 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 

A fine thread of crimson showed amid the foam of 
white on Simpson’s face. “Got what?” he asked 
with very creditably good temper; though, as he 
wiped away the lather and pressed his finger to the 
tiny cut, he began again, rather irritably: “you 
might have chosen some other time — ” 

“ My dear fellow, there was no choice in the mat- 
ter — it came! It simply came with a flash — like 
what ’s-her-name, fully fledged from the brain of 
Jupiter. Do you realise all that it means, you dear 
old stick-in-the-mud? ” he went on, seizing the other 
man by the shoulders and forcibly waltzing him 
round the room — a unique figure, with one side of 
his ruddy face white, a trickle of blood down his 
chin: collarless, his shirt-sleeves turned up, his braces 
hanging down his back. “ If only Dorothy will have 
me now, we ’ll be all right. I ’ll be able to fire ahead, 
get to work straight away : make a fortune for her. 
Simmy, old boy, it ’s going to be fine, the strongest 
thing I ever did : beat the other to a cocked hat. And 
I Ve got you in it — a gorgeous figure. What that 
lovable old ass Parry describes as your astral body, 
your subconscious personality — and your dear 
little tubby self.” 

“That ’s all right,” said Simpson mildly: “only 
look here, if you go on jogging me like that my pants 
will fall off.” 

“ But are n’t you glad? ” For a moment Desmond’s 
face dropped. But the next instant he was all smiles 
again. “And I’ve got such a girl, too; a corker: 

251 


SIMPSON 


absolutely original this time. Though ” — and here 
his face twisted with a whimsical grimace — “we 
must n’t let Dorothy know. That was the whole 
force of the argument, was n’t it? That I simply had 
to copy. — What a morning!” he went on, turning 
to the window. 

“ * With a hey, with a ho, 

With a hey nonny no, 

True lovers love the spring.’ 

By Jove, what a morning! Look here, Simmy, can 
I have the chestnut out for a gallop? I feel I simply 
must let steam off somehow or other. I ’ll ride over 
to Market Charlford and send a wire to Dorothy.” 

“Breakfast will be ready in half an hour.” 

“Oh, I don’t care; I’ve had some tea.” 

“The mare’ll be very fresh; she’s not been out 
for more than a week, except exercising : you ’ll have 
to be careful.” 

“You dear old muff. Fancy you teaching a Paddy 
like me how to manage a horse. Can I have her, 
come, now?” 

“Oh, yes, get along with you!” said Simpson, 
conquering an inexplicable unwillingness. “And, 
look v here, Desmond, if you’re going to start work 
again, you’d better tell Mrs. Bliss; she’d set her 
mind on getting that den of yours turned out to- 
day.” 

“All right.” Desmond flung towards the door, 
whistling, then turned, a gallant figure framed in the 
dark woodwork. “ I say, life ’s not so bad, after all — 
252 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 

is it, old fellow ? This book ’s none so dusty and the 
next ’ll beat it hollow. And then there’s Dorothy; 
she ’ll come round ; I know she ’ll come round ; I feel it 
in my bones ! ” he exclaimed ; then broke out again : — 

“ ‘True lovers love the spring.’ 

By Jove, I ’m simply bursting with the joy of life. I 
wonder if you ’ve ever felt like that. I hope you have, 
Simmy, for your own sake. Though, I say” — sud- 
denly his face became grave, as he paused with his 
hand on the handle of the door — “look here, I 
hope it does n’t mean that anything’s going to hap- 
pen — that I ’m fey.” 

t 1 1 Rot, ’ ’ remarked Simpson, and Desmond laughed. 

! “The old pagan fear of a jealous God, eh? Well, 
so long. I’ll get to work directly I come home; 
shan’t see you till lunch- time,” he said. And was 
gone, slamming the door behind him. 

A quarter of an hour later Simpson watched him 
from the dining-room window — riding up the park 
with the chestnut sidling, snatching at the bridle, 
and kicking her heels beneath him — and sighed. 
It was jolly to be such a good rider, to look so per- 
fectly at one with a horse; to be young with that 
abiding Celtic youth which rendered Desmond, 
only some five years his own junior, still a mere boy. 

In an hour’s time the chestnut came home — alone : 
her eyes bloodshot; her rakish head held high, a 
broken rein trailing: one side caked with mud. 

' Simpson was planting out a border of yellow camo- 
253 


SIMPSON 


mile in the Italian garden — it was all rooted up 
afterwards, for he could never bear the smell — 
when a breathless young groom came to tell him the 
news. And he followed him to the stable-yard to find 
the chestnut standing trembling; surrounded by a 
little group of servants, among whom ran a whis- 
per — that ominous whisper which sounds like the 
coming of a storm through dry trees — over which 
sounded the loud, protesting voice of the head 
groom : — 

“She was a good enough mare, easy, easy enough 
to handle when she weren’t pushed,” he declared: 
fiercely championing what he considered his own. 

“Why are you all standing here? Had n’t you bet- 
ter go indoors to your work?” Simpson addressed 
the house servants — gently enough, yet they all, 
even Mrs. Bliss, retreated without a word : — then 
he turned to the groom. 

“And you, Collins, take that mare in, and saddle 
the bay, Clarke can take the cob and you can go and 
see what ’s happened — one had better go across the 
park, and the other out by the back gate. I ’ll get 
you each a flask of brandy in case — but probably 
he only got off to open a gate and the mare bolted.” 

Collins, half in at the stable door, turned, touched 
the mare’s muddy side, and glanced significantly, 
almost with contempt, at his master. His horses 
were not the sort that fall if left to themselves, the 
look seemed to say. 

“That’s nothing — she may have tripped over 
254 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 


the rein.” Simpson spoke sharply; but as he moved 
towards the house his heart was heavy within him. 

However, the suspense was of short duration. 
Finch and Parrifleet turned out, with all the men 
about the place, to help in the search. But Simpson 
was still tramping miserably up and down the stable- 
yard — straining his eyes in every direction, afraid 
to move far away from the house, in case he should 
not be there to give directions when the news came, 
while Banks’s chauffeur got out the motor, in case 

— in case — the thought would not go farther — 
when the under-groom came galloping back. Des- 
mond had been found, lying against a fence with 
the ground trodden deeply all round ; he must have 
been trying to force the mare at a jump. He was 
alive, but not conscious. Mr. Parrifleet and Mr. Finch 
were there, and had sent him home to ask for a mat- 
tress and shutter — a door or anything of that sort, 
Mr. Finch had said: and Mr. Banks’s man had 
better go for the doctor. 

From thence on the day was incredibly long : hur- 
ried and unreal. The injured man was brought home 

— unreal, too, irreconcilable with the buoyant per- 
sonality of that morning — and laid in the morning 
room, where a bed was put up so as to save him the 
jar of the stairs. The Market Charlford doctor came : 
stayed a long time : made an exhaustive examination ; 
then suggested another opinion. Late that same 
night, though it was hard to believe that months 
had not passed, the London doctor arrived: saw 

255 


SIMPSON 


Desmond, was closeted a long time with his col- 
league; then with an air of condescending urbanity 
gave his opinion as concurring precisely with that of 
the country practitioner. It was an injury to the 
spine; with partial paralysis, which would spread. 
The patient might last a few days, a week at the 
most; would almost certainly become conscious; but 
for all that the end was inevitable. 

Just as he was going away, leaving the local doctor 
in charge, with two nurses, telegraphed for from Town, 
Simpson, who had been persistently meeting every 
train, came in with Dorothy Sartor is. She had been 
in the north of England ; there had been some delay 
in forwarding the wire he had sent; but directly it 
was received she had set out on the long journey; 
every moment an agony of fear lest she should be too 
late; thankful for even this respite; exhausted to 
numbness. 

Simpson himself took her to Desmond’s room, 
holding her hand like a child ; and left her sitting by 
the bedside, deadly white and absolutely still, while 
the two nurses had supper together, and discussed 
the man she loved, now “the case.” 

Then one went to bed, and the other prepared to 
spend the night at Desmond’s side — not that there 
was anything to be done — while the greater part of 
the household settled down to a pretence of sleep, 
for it was close on one o’clock. 

Presently Simpson crept into the sick-room, and 
led Dorothy away to the library, where he coaxed 
256 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 

her to sit by the fire and drink some tea; which he 
himself made, with a little black kettle stolen from 
the scullery : very strong tea — symbolical of all the 
sympathy which he felt, and could not express. 

But the girl’s head kept turning towards the door, 
and she looked so like a piteous prisoner that he had 
not the heart to keep her long; though an hour later 
he again tiptoed into the sick-room and wrapped his 
own fringed rug closely round her. 

Next day, as the doctor had predicted, Desmond 
recovered consciousness for a moment or two. 

“ It’s a ripping book,” he whispered, each word a 
long time in coming. “ Is that you — Dorothy? I 
knew it would — be — all right.” 

Then — “Una — she ’s a corker — time I got 
to work — jolly hair — reddish — see her — quite 
well — ” 

Looking over his papers when all was ended, Simp- 
son and Dorothy found rough pencillings, evidently 
done in bed that fatal morning: a little plan like a 
map for his new novel; and Una, the name of his 
heroine, thus: — “Heroine — Una — red hair.” 

He thought of her a lot ; her name sounded as often 
as Dorothy’s on his lips ; and other names that they 
did not know. But the completed volume seemed 
quite forgotten ; while the proofs — arriving daily 
from the publisher — piled up unopened. 

Still he lingered on. The London doctor came 
down again and was amazed. But no, it presaged 
no recovery ; only bore witness to an intense vitality. 

257 


SIMPSON 


“He was wrong once — he said a day or two, a 
week at most. And now it ’s three weeks — nearly a 
month,” cried Dorothy, beating her heart out against 
the stolid acquiescence of the two nurses. Then ap- 
pealing: — “Don’t you think, don’t you feel, that 
he will live — must live? Oh, he must live — must! 
People can’t judge, don’t know, people who are never 
more than half alive themselves : he was all life — 
full of the joy of life.” 

At first it seemed as if nothing could ever be the 
same again. But the daily routine gradually drew 
them all back into the old ways : only that there were 
now three women in the house, besides Mrs. Bliss 
and the housemaid engaged to wait on them : while 
Julie, home for the Easter vacation, hovered about 
the place; brooded over Dorothy, insisted on tak- 
ing her for walks, made her sit out of doors when 
Desmond dropped asleep without her hand in his: 
which, indeed, seldom happened and nearly broke 
her heart when it did. 

Lilian Fane motored down to enquire: alone, for 
she had quarrelled with Miss Stringer, and was 
given tea in the drawing-room. And Strang’s wife 
— with Lydia, pale and delicately indomitable, in 
her wake, Lydia who held to, hated, and yet cham- 
pioned her sister-in-law at every turn — also called ; 
to be entertained by Banks, who showed them the 
pictures, and talked to the unmarried lady. For Mer- 
win, who had grown sombrely silent since the loss 
of her child, hardly spoke, though she warmed to a 

258 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 


passionate pity when Dorothy crept into the room 
for tea : smaller than ever and white as a spirit. 

The tennis-court was marked out again. '‘One 
must have some sort of exercise,” said Finch — for 
at this time it seemed necessary to invent an excuse 
for every amusement — and started singles with 
Gale; who appeared almost desperately unwilling 
to dwell on the thought of death. 

Sometimes one of the nurses and Julie would 
make a “four”; or Banks would consent to stand 
in the corner of the court and shout orders to his 
partner, when he was not careering round the 
country with the night nurse, who was the pretty 
one. 

Thus it may be seen that the whole character of 
the Club was changed — lost : while, with the rustle 
of petticoats, there came a stir about the place, a 
sort of shamefaced gaiety. 

Simpson, alone, seemed permanently touched. 
He was very fond of Desmond, who possessed all the 
characteristics of charm and gaiety which he himself 
lacked; while, during these days, he became sin- 
cerely attached to Dorothy, both for his friend’s sake 
and for her own. Parrifleet also — shy amid all the 
new bustle and stir — held to them : his gentle per- 
sonality, his intense belief in the thin veiling between 
the physical and spiritual worlds, comforting them 
both, despite their scepticism. 

These three made their own atmosphere, went 
their own way: annihilating self: curiously detached 
259 


SIMPSON 


and far away from the rest of the little party, who 
came and went around them. 

The paralysis was spreading. There was hardly 
any pain : but great restlessness and want of natural 
sleep : a striving of the spirit, so intense that at times 
Dorothy almost wished that the weak body would 
let it go — then grew certain that, in the end, Des- 
mond’s physical strength must triumph. 

April crept into May, but still he lingered : though 
the mind wandered more frequently, speech grew 
increasingly difficult. 

“It will be harder to lose him as time goes on,” 
said Dorothy. Then: “If only I may have him a 
little longer. Oh, Simmy!” — she had dropped into 
her sweetheart’s silly little nickname — “if only 
I was n’t so young, I could bear the thought of it 
better. Think of all the years and years before me; 
and of all the time we have wasted with our silly 
quarrel ; it is dreadful to be so young, and so strong.” 

Simpson smiled at the last word. But gradually 
he grew to realise that she was strong: that the 
slender body was little more than an almost trans- 
parent screen between the outward world and the 
ardent flame of an intense vitality. 

June dawned. The sick-room was full of roses, on 
a table at the bedside, and along the mantelpiece, 
making a shrine of it beneath the glowing Madonna 
and Child. 

Then one day Desmond signed to Simpson to 
lean over him. 


260 


TRAGEDY ON THE HEELS OF TRIUMPH 


“The dinner,” he whispered. 

“Yes, yes, old fellow,” answered his friend, think- 
ing his mind must be wandering, for it was the middle 
of the afternoon. “Not time yet, you know — 
nearly tea-time.” 

The sick man shook his head wearily, while the 
tears came into his eyes. For a moment he lay silent * 
then tried again. 

“ The dinner — every year — you know.” 

“He means the annual dinner, I think: don’t 
you, beloved?” put in Dorothy, bending over him 

Desmond nodded, while his face cleared. 

“And you want them to have it, just as if you were 
well.” 

Again he nodded. 

“All right, we’ll settle it.” For a moment she 
hesitated, while her eyes grew luminous. “Next 
year we shall be turned out — like Adam and Eve 
from Paradise — an old married couple.” 

Desmond’s gaze met hers and he smiled: the old 
whimsical smile. He knew, and she knew. But it 
was better to pretend than to whine — he had 
always hated whining. 

“We can’t do it,” protested Simpson later. 

“We must do it,” answered Dorothy, her full lips 
drawn into a hard straight line. “If he wishes it, 
we must do it.” 

“Seems a ghoulish sort of idea,” grumbled Banks 
when it was mooted to him. Then he turned his 
mind to wondering whether the night nurse or Lydia 
261 


SIMPSON 


Strang should be his guest of honour : till he chanced 
on Finch kissing the former in the shrubbery. 

“ Merely a mediaeval custom,” remarked the art- 
ist airily. 

“ That ’s all very well, only she does not happen 
to be a mediaeval sort of person ; nor you either, — 
eh, what? ” responded Banks shrewdly. And im- 
mediately despatched a note of invitation to Miss 
Strang; while Finch invited Lilian Fane, and the 
night nurse was left to have her supper — or break- 
fast — alone as usual. 

“Might as well make the best of things. It's no 
good brooding — won’t help Desmond, poor chap. 
Anyhow, for God’s sake, let us be cheerful,” said 
Gale; and asked Finch’s widow of the previous year, 
who was nothing if not cheerful, to be his guest. 

For himself Simpson chose Julie: poor Julie, who 
had not heard anything of Van Rennen for over two 
months; and whose pain was chiefly evident in her 
fierce indignation at any offer of sympathy. 

“ I know you hate it, and I hate it,” he said kindly. 
“But anyhow, we’ll drink the lad’s health: and, 
really, it will be awfully good of you if you’ll see me 
through.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY: WHICH ENDS IN THE 
RETURN OF TWO TRAVELLERS AND THE DEPAR- 
TURE OF A THIRD 

Once more the long table in the dining-room at 
Fountains Court was aglow with roses; glittering 
with glass and silver. Partly from a desire to make 
the best of things ; partly because they were glad of 
any change, any rush of work tending to raise the 
gloom which almost insensibly overhung them, the 
household had exerted itself to the uttermost: with 
the effect that the whole place shone with, smelt of 
beeswax, overflowed with flowers. 

At Simpson’s right sat Julie — in a white silk frock 
this time, owing to the dignity of her engagement; 
at his left Lilian Fane. And beyond her Finch. And 
beyond him again Lydia Strang, in the same grey 
frock that she had worn a year before. 

On the opposite side, next to Julie, sat Parrifleet; 
while beyond him were two empty places. Then 
came a young soldier, a man named Blount, who had 
lately joined, with a bright young society girl; Gale 
and Mrs. d’Esterre. And at the head of the table, 
greatest innovation of all, Lady Van Rennen herself. 

The place next to Parrifleet had been set for 
263 


SIMPSON 


Dorothy : but though her courage helped her to dress ; 
to present herself, fresh and smiling, for Desmond’s 
inspection, she could not face the dinner: but 
wrapped in a shawl sat crouched against the outer 
lintel of the sick-room door: “I’ll come in at des- 
sert when you drink the healths,” she said. “For 
the rest you must let me off; forgive me this time, 
Simmy. I ’ll not be a coward much longer — when 
there’s nothing left to fear,” she added with a trem- 
ulous laugh. 

Seated at the table Parrifleet put out a slender 
hand and set upright the glasses which stood by the 
empty places: and which for some whim, difficult 
to understand in so conventional a person, — or 
perhaps in disgust at having the look of his table 
spoilt, — Jervis had reversed. 

It was a fancy of Parrifleet’s that Van Rennen 
and Kirkland would return that night. He had 
broached the subject more than a week ago: had 
talked it over with Julie as though it was a settled 
fact, so convincingly, indeed, that the white silk 
was purchased and put in the hands of the dress- 
maker for no other reason than that her lover should 
see her at her best, while his steadfast belief in what 
he believed to have seen in the crystal gradually 
impressed itself on the minds of the other members, 
so that for the last two days they had all been 
watching for a telegram; jumping at the sound of a 
bell. Thus the places had been set: though by the 
time the actual evening arrived all, excepting Parri- 
264 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


fleet himself, and perhaps Julie, had ceased to believe 
in their being filled. 

From the opposite side of the table Lilian watched 
the action with a shrug of contempt. The man was 
not a gentleman : well-bred people disregarded senti- 
ment ; besides, the lapels of his dress-coat were ten 
years behind the fashion. The Club was going 
downhill ; everything was changed : already the num- 
bers were lessened. By another year her chance 
would come ; it only meant patience — patience — 
that crutch of little minds and small ambitions. 

The next moment she had plunged into the silence 
which had followed Parrifleet’s action, while Lady 
Van Rennen turned to Banks and questioned him 
remorselessly as to the news from Siberia. 

“ Nearly a year since they went; and close on two 
months since I heard. Things should begin to hum 
by now: what do you make of it? What do your 
people make of it ? ” 

“Oh, it ’s all right ; they Ve been very busy getting 
all the machinery and stuff up: I suppose they’ve 
started working by now — have no time.” 

“Well, the boy might write. Sir Abel don’t mind; 
says he ’s glad the lad’s got guts enough to strike out 
on his own.” Julie tittered, she could almost hear 
her future father-in-law; besides, Miss Fane’s ex- 
pression was a study: — “But that’s no reason for 
him not writing to let us know whether he ’s alive or 
dead. When did you hear — eh, young woman?” 

“Eight weeks and two days ago,” responded 
265 


SIMPSON 


Julie in a voice which held resentment; not against 
Van Rennen, but against Miss Fane, who had now 
fixed her with a polite air of enquiry. “ I don’t expect 
letters” — her tone was almost defiant. “He has 
too much to do — it ’s even a business getting them 
posted. Besides, how could he let us know if he ’s 
dead?” 

“Strange how your party’s dwindled, Mr. Simp- 
son. There’s poor Mr. Desmond, and then Mr. 
Strang. By the bye, what ’s become of Mr. Strang? ” 
enquired Lilian, with her bright air of making con- 
versation, her inevitable knack of nosing at every 
fact which one could wish suppressed. 

“He’s ruled out; he’s married.” 

“No, is he really? The last one I should have 
thought of. Whom did he marry — any one down 
here?” 

There was a moment’s awkward pause, while 
Lydia flushed uneasily. Then Simpson answered 
quite placidly: “A friend of mine.” 

“A woman,” paraphrased Finch glibly — “a 
woman; and take her all in all, we shall not look 
upon her like again.” 

“ By Jove, but you should have seen the woman I 
saw this morning,” put in Gale suddenly. 

“Where?” 

“ In the church.” 

“My dear Gale, you ’ve been dreaming. I ’ve seen 
ladies in Little Ilkley church and I ’ve seen females. 
But a woman. A woman’s a rare bird,” mocked 
266 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


Finch. “ Besides — in the very beginning you must 
have been dreaming you were in church.” 

“Well, I was. I went to look at that arch they said 
was Saxon — it ’s no more Saxon than I am : but I 
saw something for my pains. She was just coming 
out as I went in, and I stood aside to let her pass. 
You know everybody in the village, Miss Cart- 
wright ” — he leant forward and looked up the table 
to Julie. “ I wonder if you could tell me who she is.” 

“What was she like?” 

“Like nothing in heaven or on earth.” 

“Shut up, Finch: you don’t know beauty when 
you see it — you can only paint pictures. Though 
that reminds me, upon my word she was like nothing 
on earth so much as that mysterious portrait of 
Beatrice d’Este; do you know it?” 

Simpson leant forward, his eyes on Julie. Sud- 
denly it seemed as if the sense of waiting and ex- 
pectancy, which had possessed him ever since he 
came to Fountains, was going to be fulfilled. 

But after a moment’s hesitation the girl shook her 
head. 

“No,” she said, with a blush which might have 
been for her own ignorance; “I don’t think I ever 
even heard of the picture — never saw it.” 

“Then can you imagine who it might be?” 

“Let me see; it might be” — her face dimpled 
with mischief — “it might be Mrs. Flynn.” 

“That slab!” cried Finch. 

“Or Miss Lyon.” 

267 


SIMPSON 


‘‘That dried shaving.” 

“Or Nelly Carter, the postman’s daughter; she’s 
the beauty of the place.” 

“ If she wears a white embroidered dress of infinite 
fineness, and carries a blue silk parasol, and is tall 
and slender as a goddess and has amber-coloured 
hair and the slenderest little neck I ever saw, like 
Mary Queen of Scots — ” 

“Why Mary Queen of Scots?” 

“Because it was so white and transparent that 
you could see the wine through it when she drank.” 
Gale had begun half in extravagant fun, but by now 
he was flushed with excitement. 

“ My dear fellow, I said you were dreaming: but I 
misjudged you; you were merely drunk. And — 
judging from the wine simile — so was the lady; 
and just coming out of church, too; oh, fie! ” laughed 
Finch. 

“Well now, who do you think she was, Nelly 
Carter, — eh, Miss Cartwright?” persisted Gale, 
disregarding this flippancy. 

“N — o — o. It must have been a stranger. 
There are lots of tourists about this time of year.” 

Gale gave a shout of triumph. “Why, she was n’t 
even wearing a hat!” 

“Probably changed with her young man, and 
lost his, or pawned it. Tourists are proverbially 
immoral in the matter of headgear,” remarked 
Finch. 

“ But,” began Gale; then broke off to.listen to the 
268 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 

sound of a motor which throbbed its way down the 
drive. 

“Hullo, another invited guest — eh, what?” 
cried Banks: while Simpson’s eyes met Julie’s, each 
pair alight with their own unacknowledged thought. 
If Gale had not been dreaming, if the Beatrice d’Este 
had really been seen in Little Ilkley, — and there 
could not be two such ladies, — there was no knowing 
what might happen, he thought; while the way the 
girl’s eyes left his and sought Parrifleet’s, with a wide 
stare of triumph, showed where her hopes had flown. 

Suddenly her face dropped. “It’s not coming 
here!” 

“It’s only turned round to the front door — we 
always miss the sound then,” answered Simpson. 

“ No; we would have heard the bell — surely, by 
this time.” 

“Hope nothing’s gone wrong at Oxford,” said 
Gale nervously. For having — as he said — built 
to defy eternity, he lived in nervous dread of some- 
thing happening to his work. 

“Probably only my gun: they said they’d send 
it over from Aldershot,” remarked Blount, with a 
military air of having settled everything. 

“ It is n’t coming here at all,” chimed in some one 
else: the whole party astrain with listening. 

“It must have been on the road.” 

“Or perhaps only a tradesman gone to the back.” 

“ Or the doctor to see Desmond ; slipped in without 
ringing.” 


269 


SIMPSON 


“What a chronicle of small beer,” muttered Gale 
discontentedly. “We’re all getting to know each 
other too well; conversation’s choked with domes- 
ticity. It seems as if we can talk of nothing beyond 
each other’s affairs. When people get to this state 
they must either dine tete-a-tete, or a dozen miles 
apart.” 

“Ah — ” The general nervousness broke in a 
long-drawn breath as the front doorbell pealed 
through the house; and Jervis — setting down the 
dish of fruit which he held — turned to leave the 
room; while the whole party, as though governed 
by a single impulse, rose to its feet. 

“It’s Mr. Van Rennen and Mr. Kirkland,” re- 
marked Parrifleet quietly. He leant sideways and 
pulled the two chairs out from the table. 

“Nonsense!” Lady Van Rennen’s voice was a 
bellow of hopeful incredulity; but Julie had slipped 
from her place and was out of the door. There was 
a sound of men’s voices; then the girl’s shrill with 
excitement: “Archie!” And picking up her tight 
skirts well above her knees, the old lady literally 
ran from the room. 

Involuntarily they all turned and would have fol- 
lowed her had not Simpson retained them with a 
laughing gesture. 

“We’re not wanted there, I think,” he remarked 
quietly, and seated himself; the rest of the party, 
after a moment’s hesitation, following his example. 

Through the open door he could see a mere streak 
270 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


of white, folded round by two rough-coated arms 
and a tweed ulster, the whole overcharged by a 
surging immensity of crimson brocade: and won- 
dered what it would be like to come home to people, 
instead of merely to a place, however alluring. Then 
he reached across the table to hand Miss Fane some 
strawberries. 

“There's no need why you should n't have any 
dessert because Ulysses has returned,” he remarked, 
laughing: “I believe Kirkland’s somewhere there, 
but we’ll wait for him to extract himself from the 
m£ 16 e.” 

“ Mr. Kirkland 's just gone to wash his hands, sir,” 
remarked Jervis, who had appeared and was handing 
round the wine. “He said as how he would n’t be a 
minute. Here he comes, sir,” he added, as Kirkland 
— colourless as ever and calm as though he had 
merely returned from a day in Town — entered the 
room: bowed, slipped round the table into his own 
place, and opened the napkin which had been 
folded with so many protests. 

“Awfully sorry I’m late.” 

“By Jove, but it’s good to see you.” Simpson 
leant forward and beamed down the table. 

“You expected me?” 

“ Parrifleet declared you 'd come; saw it in a crys- 
tal. Well done, Parrifleet, you’ve certainly estab- 
lished your reputation forever. How are you, Kirk- 
land: all well, I hope?” 

“ How are things going? What 's the output likely 
271 


SIMPSON 


to be, — eh, what? I must say you Ve been pretty 
chary with reports, considering what you were sent 
out for,” put in Banks. 

“Hold on, Banks; food first,” responded Kirkland 
shortly, and turned to Simpson. “ Is there anything? 
We should have been in time — calculated it to a 
nicety — only for a wretched break-down on the 
line, which lost us our connection.” 

“Jervis will find you something. Tell Mrs. Bliss 
to do what she can, Jervis, and serve coffee in here. 
It is jolly you two turning up now; things seemed 
somehow flat; there have been changes — Ah! 
here are the others,” he went on as Van Rennen 
appeared, with Julie clinging to one arm and his 
mother to the other. “Welcome back, Van Rennen, 
we’ve missed you sorely,” he continued, moving 
forward to shake hands: noting the boy’s brown 
leanness, the steady look in his eyes, with frank 
approval. 

“Come and sit down; here’s your place all ready 
for you, next to Miss Cartwright: Parrifleet foretold 
your coming.” 

“Good for you, old Parry.” The young fellow 
slipped into his seat, with his hand still in Julie’s; 
and beamed round at them all. “ It ’s good to see you 
— by Jove, how often I’ve thought of this dinner, 
and the last one. Hullo, Banks, you still here? We ’ve 
got some grand news for you ; you ’ll be able to face 
that five hundred fine now without turning a hair. 
Hullo, Gale, how are you? And Finch ; Finch, you ’re 
272 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


looking weedy; you want six months of the Schist 
Belt to put some life into you. I tell you, the air’s 
like champagne — but it ’s wild as the world’s end : 
never seen a decent dinner-table since we left, have 
we, Kirkland? — Or a decently dressed woman. What 
a swell you are, Julie, and, by Jingo, you ’ve grown.” 

1 1 Grown ! I ’ ve stopped growing years ago ! ’ ’ cried 
Julie indignantly. 

“Well, anyhow, the mater ’s grown, only the 
wrong way on.” The words bubbled out of the boy 
as from an irrepressible spring of good spirits and 
vitality. And looking at him Simpson found it diffi- 
cult to believe that he was the wearied, rather blase 
young man who had entreated to be allowed to join 
the Club, only a little more than a year earlier. “ You 
all look tremendously toffed up,” he went on gaily: 

— “we’d no business to come tumbling in upon you 
in this fashion, but we’ve simply raced for it. No- 
thing but pack-horses from Kerkerod Creek to Pe- 
trowski Zavod — you’ll have to learn to ride, Julie 

— and frightful going. The Belokoi Stream — you 
remember that on the map we made? — was in flood, 
and we got every rag we had with us soaked through, 
and half our baggage lost; which accounts for this,” 

— and he thrust a ragged frieze sleeve into view. 
“ Had to lead our horses the greater part of the way, 
too, and walked through our last pair of boots. An 
old fellow offered Kirkland a penny at Victoria 
Station: thought we’d been padding the hoof.” 

“You’re disgustingly dirty and horribly dressed, 
273 


SIMPSON 


and you smell of shag, of the very vilest description ; 
but you certainly look more of a man than you did 
a year ago,” remarked Lady Van Rennen; her tiara 
well on one side, her round red face beaming with 
pride. “It makes me want to be out roughing it 
again, free of the flummery Sir Abel and me’s been 
working for all these years. He ’ll be pleased to see 
you, my lad. Will say you ’ve got — ” she hesitated, 
her shrewd glance on the expectant horror of Miss 
Fane’s face: then veered. “Well, anyhow, it’s made 
a man of you; was just what you needed.” 

“That’s good from you, Mother, after spending 
your life trying to keep me in cotton wool. Hullo, 
Jervis! Soup? — good old Mrs. Bliss, give her my 
love. By Jove, it’s fine to be back and see you all, 
though I ’m clean spoilt for civilization. But there ’re 
some missing — where’s Strang? How do you do, 
Miss Strang — what have you done with your 
brother?” 

“ He’s married. ” It was Simpson who answered. 

“And Desmond, dear old Desmond?” 

“ Desmond’s here, but very ill — Miss Sartoris is 
nursing him. Oh, here she is,” he went on, rising, as 
the door opened and Dorothy herself appeared on 
the threshold. 

Young Van Rennen sprang to his feet ; his charming 
face aglow, delighted to see her, as he was delighted 
to see all belonging to his old world. “ How do you 
do, Miss Sartoris? I’m awfully glad to see you, 
awfully sorry to hear that Desmond ’s not well,” he 
274 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


began. And was moving round the table to shake 
hands, when he paused, puzzled by a gesture, almost 
of repulsion. 

“How do you do, Mr. Van Rennen? How do you 
do, Mr. Kirkland? I ’m very glad to see you back.” 
Dorothy’s voice was level and she spoke almost 
mechanically, while Kirkland bowed over the table ; 
his leathery face as impassive as ever, his head bent; 
his deep-set eyes raised and fixed on the girl’s white 
face. 

“ I want you — he wished you all ” — she went on, 
in a curiously flat voice — “to drink his health: to 
drink to the memory of what you have all been to 
each other — and to the future. No, I ’ll not come 
in — or sit down, if you ’ll excuse me. But I want 
you to do it now; now at once.” 

The girl spoke in quick, broken sentences, and it 
seemed to Simpson as though she were palpitating 
on the very edge of flight. Or rather as if by some 
force of will she had compelled her body to come to 
them ; while her heart and soul were far away. 

“You will do it now — all of you.” She beat 
softly with one hand on the palm of the other as she 
spoke : enunciating each word as if with a desperate 
effort at clearness and patience. “At once — at 
once.” 

“Yes, of course — at once,” answered Simpson 
gently. “ He is no worse — is he? ” 

For a moment Dorothy hesitated: her dark eyes, 
immense with fatigue, holding some strange expres- 
275 


SIMPSON 


sion — almost of exhilaration — which Simpson 
could not fathom. Then she spoke, very slowly. 
“No — he is not worse; he is better — I think,” 
she said: and with a little bow turned and slipped 
from the room. 

The health was drunk almost in silence ; and for a 
while the old sense of depression overhung the party. 
But Van Rennen was bubbling over with spirits 
that nothing could quench; his mother and Julie 
overflowing with happiness which made itself felt; 
infecting the others, stimulating them to gaiety; 
while later on — though the young couple slipped 
from the room — there were more healths to be 
drunk and speeches to be made. So that it was fully 
an hour before the rest of the party rose from the 
littered table. 

As they moved towards the open window Gale 
gave a sudden exclamation; stepped back to the 
table, seized a branching candlestick and held it 
high in front of one of the pictures ; that of the Early 
Victorian girl, in ringlets and white muslin. 

“That’s odd. It’s the dead spit of the woman 
I saw to-day. I never even noticed the face before 
— those straight brows and rather deep-set eyes, 
the little rounded chin and long neck. If those con- 
founded curls were out of the way,” he declared. 
And flushed with wine and excitement, he involun- 
tarily stretched out one shaking hand and touched 
the girl’s hair, as though to push it from her cheek. 
Then with a high laugh, he turned to Simpson, who 
276 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


was watching him with an air of disproportionate 
disapproval. 

“ It ’s odd — it seems so real. The picture and the 
woman — perhaps Finch was right; perhaps it was 
all a dream. If it had been this girl she’d be sixty 
now, to judge by the dress. There was something 
ethereal about her too — in the church and all. 
Perhaps she was a ghost. What do you think — 
eh, Simpson?” 

“I think you’ve had just about as much wine as 
you can carry,” replied his host gravely: and was 
turning to leave the room, when Gale slipped his 
arm through his and laughed again. 

“Seems an odd combination — Beatrice d’Este 
— Queen Victoria, and Little Ilkley! I believe Miss 
Cartwright knows something — I shall pump her.” 

“Don’t be a cad, Gale.” 

“What do you mean?” Gale’s voice held all the 
outraged virtue of a not quite sober man. 

“What do you want to go poking and prying 
about a woman whom you know nothing of — never 
will know?” fumed Simpson: inexplicably disgusted 
with Gale, and furious at the realisation that to 
question Julie was the very idea which he himself 
had been cherishing, ever since Gale first spoke of 
the stranger whom he had seen. To poke and pry 
and question — it would be an odious vice in Gale ; 
and, as he was forced in all honesty to confess, no 
less odious in himself. 

He would ask no question, make no further 
•277 


SIMPSON 


search. If happiness was coming, if it was that 
which he and Fountains were alike waiting for, it 
would come — as inevitably as night followed the 
day. 

As he stood in the hall, having seen the last of 
his guests depart, Jervis touched him on the arm. 
“Miss Sartoris wants to see you, sir, if you will step 
upstairs.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Just outside Mr. Desmond’s room — the doc- 
tor ’s there, sir.” 

“All right, I ’ll go up at once,” answered Simpson. 
Then, with an inexplicable sense of nerving himself 
for some ordeal, he moved towards the front door, 
and stood there for a moment or so drawing in deep 
breaths of the pure night air, before moving upstairs 
and along the corridor; where he found Dorothy 
standing, leaning against the lintel of Desmond’s 
door; her haggard face, still wearing that curious 
look of exaltation, in strange contrast with the 
dainty purity of her evening gown. 

“What ’s wrong? I hope Desmond ’s no worse — 
in pain?” 

“No — he — he — ” she began, then raised one 
hand and pressed it against her bare throat as though 
it hurt her. “ He ’ll never have any more pain. Oh, 
Simmy, Simmy!” she stretched out her other hand 
and laid it on his arm. “I’m not sorry, I’m glad, 
glad for him — to be free — after lying here all 
these weeks. I had to tell you myself — for you ’ve 
278 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 

been our best friend, always, Simmy. He’s gone — 
my boy! I can’t believe it: he was so full of life, it 
seems impossible. The nurse and doctor are there 
now, but I was alone with him, quite alone: I shall 
always be glad of that.” 

“Why did n’t you call me? You poor child, you 
poor, poor child!” 

“I could n’t bear even you. I wanted him all to 
myself at the end. I think we both knew it was com- 
ing — we learnt to know so much of each other these 
last few months. This afternoon he was dozing, 
and he awoke quite suddenly and said, — ‘After all, 
there’s the sequel!’ And when I asked him — ‘To 
what? ’ He said, — ‘To this crabbed old book of life.’ ” 

“When—” 

“Just after you went in to dinner. We seemed to 
be waiting. Not frightened or anything; just very 
solemn, almost happy. But we wanted to be alone 

— I sent the nurse away on purpose. He struggled a 
little as if to raise himself. I slipped my arm round 
his neck: and he cried out quite loudly and strongly, 

— ‘Oh, Dot ! ’ not as though he were in pain ; but like 
he used to do when he had got a splendid new idea, 

— and was gone.” 

“Child — child— ” 

“Oh, Simmy — I can’t be sorry yet. It was so 
gallant, — like his life. It was like when we rode 
together, and he would take a high fence I did n’t 
dare ; and half turn and wave his hand and shout as 
the horse topped it. 


279 


SIMPSON 


“ Even then he was not gone — just the other side 
of the fence, perhaps, but his spirit was still in the 
room with me. And I knelt there with his dear head 
on my arm, for a long while. Then I remembered 
and went down to you.” 

“Remembered what, dear?” 

“To tell you to drink his health. I knew he wanted 
it; had set his heart on it. And I tried not to let you 
guess — though the way Mr. Kirkland looked at 
me made me think that he knew. But I did n’t want 
to spoil your party — Julie’s happiness; there is so 
little in the world, and he liked pluck above all 
things. My darling boy! I want to be plucky, to 
live my life as he’d wish me to, gaily and gallantly.” 

Suddenly her voice broke, and Simpson — the 
tears running unchecked down his broad face — 
stretched out his hands to her, with that baffled 
feeling of utter helplessness which comes to a man 
at the sight of a woman’s grief. 

Another woman might have put her arms round 
the frail creature, clasped her to her, known what to 
do or say. But Dorothy drew back from the very 
touch of his 'hands : austere, virginal creature, even 
in the state of exhilaration — almost ecstasy — which 
possessed her. Never to unbend to any man, and to 
few women, now that this one human being, who had 
held the secret of the tune which piped her heart to 
life and warmth, was gone. 

“Don’t touch me! Don’t let any one come near 
me or touch me to-night. I want to be alone — quite 
$280 


THE SECOND DINNER PARTY 


alone — it seems like our wedding-night. But to- 
morrow — ” suddenly her voice broke, a look of 
horror swept over her face. “There’s to-morrow — 
and the day after — and on and on, endless morrows 
without him — ” She flung out her hands with a 
gesture of despair. 

“God’s cruel — cruel! I can’t — I — ” she be- 
gan : swayed and fell forward into Simpson’s arms. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Desmond’s sweetheart starts life afresh, to 

THE VERY BEST OF HER ABILITIES 

After Desmond’s death Dorothy stayed at Foun- 
tains for. a fortnight ; with her sister, whom Simpson 
had wired for, to keep her company. 

The older Miss Sartoris was a more set edition of 
the younger. There was something tantalising about 
Dorothy’s aloofness : it was like a flower that one 
is always waiting to open; closed above a glowing 
heart. But the other was set like a china blossom, 
delicate as a morsel of Sevres, but incapable of 
expansion. She was hardy and conventional where 
Dorothy was exquisitely prim : quite sure of herself 
where Dorothy hesitated : devoid of all lights and 
shades : incapable of moods, with all the narrowness 
of her sex and none of its allurements. 

Even Finch was repulsed. “She is like a nicely 
lacquered, prettily painted tin tray,” he said, and 
somehow the simile suited. There was no depth to 
her, and yet no softness; no lovable failing: she was 
irreproachable and unapproachable: exasperatingly 
neat in mind and body : finished off with a machine- 
like economy and precision. 

Dorothy visibly wilted under her wing. But for 
282 


DOROTHY STARTS LIFE AFRESH 


all that, Simpson feared that she might grow like 
her: it is so fatally easy to follow any example for 
which one has a tendency. 

They talked of it; for the girl herself realised the 
danger. Desmond had shown it to her in that won- 
derful character study which she had once so re- 
sented. It would be so restful just to become Mar- 
garet's shadow, to let things slide on along the 
groove already worn for her. 

“ I left off going to dances when I was twenty-five,” 
said Margaret. And though nothing was further 
from Dorothy's mind than the thought of any such 
gaiety, she resented having a milestone set for her: 
realising that each year must be marked by some 
fresh repression. Desmond’s doctrine of joy had sunk 
deep. Gaiety would always be a little of an effort 
with her, never come quite naturally. But for all 
that she determined on it: life should grow fuller, 
not emptier. 

“ There are odd little meannesses in my nature 

— not over saving money, but saving myself — 
which frighten me. I shall be like that girl in his book 
if I don't take care: saying, — ‘I don’t think that 
quite nice ' — * I don’t think a lady should know any- 
thing of such and such people,”' — she declared. 
“And I don't mean to be like that: a drab old maid 

— idling over my narrow daily round : drawing my 
skirts aside from everything human.” 

She spoke with fire. But she was so small and so 
quiet that Simpson half-f eared she would drift with 
283 


SIMPSON 


the stream; till, a week after her return to London, 
he heard that she had joined a settlement in the East 
End. 

Later on he went up to see her, laden with fruit 
and flowers from Fountains; tracking her by the help 
of a genial coster, who described her as : — 

“Damnation little, but doin’ her damnedest, an’ 
real fly.” 

“I’m reforming the neighbourhood,” she said with 
twinkling eyes when Simpson told her — it was 
strange, but it was only since her great sorrow that 
she had achieved any real sense of humour: — “To 
be described without one single gory adjective is a 
triumph. How’s Julie?” 

“You know she’s married.” 

“Yes; she sent me some cake. I divided it among 
my girls, who put it through a wedding-ring and 
slept with it under their pillows. Superstition’s the 
one form of poetry left to us in these parts, Simmy.” 

“Well, they’re at the Vicarage now: just back 
from their honeymoon. But only for a day or so: 
they’re off to Siberia next week.” 

“I can’t imagine Julie married.” 

“I don’t think she ever even remembers it. Her 
life seems one long flirtation with Van Rennen; 
varied by flirtations with other people: the whole 
business a glorious game.” 

They were sitting in Dorothy’s tiny parlour while 
she arranged the flowers he had brought; shouting 
across the room to each other, for the noise of chil- 
284 


DOROTHY STARTS LIFE AFRESH 


dren playing outside was little short of deafening; 
while above it all — up and down the street — went 
the monotonous cry of : — 

“Ca — me — e — e,ca — me — e — e, ca — me — 
e — e — ” which she translated for Simpson as 
“ cat's meat.” 

“You look rather thin, Dorothy; but you're all 
right — happy here in your work?” 

“Yes, Simmy, quite happy. Oddly enough, it 
still seems a sort of waiting : not like a great tragedy, 
but as if Harry had only gone quite a little way. I 
sometimes wonder — do you remember what Brown- 
ing says about a vessel only being made to hold so 
much, capable of no more? I sometimes think that 
I had as much of happiness — that live sort of happi- 
ness — as I was capable of : that after a time I might 
have disappointed Harry; flagged, grown chilled: 
that now I ’m really learning life through other peo- 
ple’s lives: and when we meet again I shall be a 
little bigger, capable of more.” 

Simpson sat silent: realising that somehow she 
was right; that she had reached her full growth, as 
far as this world went, during those few weeks by 
Desmond’s bedside. And yet how tragic it seemed, 
that one should come to know one’s self more suited 
for the sad virtue of resignation than for any fulness 
of life; to be able to say that, perhaps, after all, it 
was for the best. 

“ Mrs. Bliss made you the cake — sent it with her 
love.” He scarcely knew why he said it, except in a 
285 


SIMPSON 

clumsy endeavour to show how they still thought of 
her. 

“ Dear old Mrs. Bliss! how good she was to me. I 
suppose she is alone now: that the reign of the petti- 
coats is over?” 

“Yes; Julie's been running in and out: but she’ll 
be gone by the time I get back : no need to make rules 
against women, these days, Dorothy; there’s no 
competition among them.” 

“What ’s become of Miss Fane?” 

“Oh, she’s given us up as a bad job. Unless — do 
you know I sometimes have an idea she and Finch 
may make a match of it.” 

“Simmy, why don’t you marry?” 

“Who’d have me?” 

“Almost any one — with any sense.” 

“ My dear child, I don’t want any woman to marry 
me because she thinks it would be a sensible thing 
to do. For the rest: would you marry me?” 

“No.” Dorothy’s lips tightened. 

“And why? Because of the past? Do you realise 
that by the time a man gets over forty, all the 
women he ’d care to marry have pasts, or husbands 
and children? There’s no room for him.” He rose, 
smiling rather wistfully. “Will you come uptown 
with me and have some dinner?” 

“I wish I could, Simmy, but there’s the girls’ 
club, I — ” she began. Then suddenly she realised 
the expression of his face. “ But I can, of course, and 
I ’d love it. If you don’t mind waiting a moment 
286 


DOROTHY STARTS LIFE AFRESH 


while I run round to the Institute and find a sub- 
stitute,” she said; disappeared into the next room 
and came back pinning on a hat. “ Just light the gas 
and put on the kettle and we’ll have a cup of tea 
before we go — I won’t be a minute.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


SIMPSON’S RUSTIC PEACE IS AGAIN BROKEN 

Simpson had been over to a distant farm buying a 
load of new hay; a task which gave him infinite 
pleasure. He had arrived at the farm — beneath the 
rolling shoulder of the downs, a good ten miles from 
Fountains Court — early in the afternoon. But the 
bargaining, though amicable, was protracted. The 
farmer had come from Gloucestershire, and his roll- 
ing burr was infinitely leisurely. Besides this, there 
was tea in the wide-flagged kitchen, and the stock 
and pigs to be inspected : ruminated over, scratched 
and poked in the manner which the city man had 
discovered to be orthodox. 

The hours rolled by as smoothly rounded as the 
downs themselves : heavy with all the summer scents 
of farm life; cows and elder-blossom, and freshly- 
baked bread. 

Simpson enjoyed every moment of it. The buying 
of the hay alone was a protracted delight : which he 
rolled on his mental palate like a fine old wine: by 
no means to be gulped down at one draught. 

Thus it happened that it was well past seven 
when he started to drive home, congratulating him- 
self that he was the only one at the Club, excepting 
288 


SIMPSON’S PEACE AGAIN BROKEN 


Parrifleet, — who did not care when or how he fed, — 
and had ordered a cold dinner on the chance of being 
late. 

A mile or two from the farm the road had nar- 
rowed to a mere lane between high hedges, when 
something — which at first looked like a load of 
hay — loomed up before him in the dusk, and draw- 
ing rein he backed into an adjoining gateway, for it 
was too narrow to turn. 

A moment later, he saw that it was a gipsy cara- 
van. And behind it another, and yet another; the 
two front ones open, with women and children 
perched in front, or sitting with dangling legs in the 
doorway at the back; while the men tramped along 
the hedgerow, their lurchers yapping down the far- 
ther side. 

The last van, however, was closely shut back and 
front, drawn by an ancient, swollen-kneed grey horse, 
and driven by a heavy-faced, powerfully built young 
man, who balanced himself upon the shaft; while be- 
hind this came a dilapidated spring cart — piled with 
bundles — on which sat a woman nursing a child, and 
hung round with pots and pans of every description. 

As the last passed, Simpson recognized the man 
on the shaft: and called out “Good-evening,” — a 
greeting which was returned by a sulky nod. It was 
Merwin’s Cousin Sam. She had taken him to visit 
the camp only a couple of weeks ago, and introduced 
him to the hunchback and old Auntie Rachel, and 
this Sam Lovell: a man whom Simpson classified 
289 


SIMPSON 


as not being the sort that he would care to meet 
alone on a dark night. Though that day he had 
seemed docile enough to be very easily twisted round 
Merwin’s fingers; while she, on her side, used her 
power to the utmost. 

For since the coming of her own people the girl 
had flared out into a hectic excitement and restless- 
ness; showing an ardour of attachment and fellow- 
feeling for them all; coquetting with Sam and Dan 
as she had never done before; setting the other 
women of the large camp by their ears ; as though in 
defiance of Strang, who bitterly resented their com- 
ing, and wished her to cut the whole connection. 

The sour, unwholesome calm of his house was 
broken up. His mother and Emma were once more 
alive with venom, while Merwin, no longer dully 
acquiescent, answered them back, loudly contemptu- 
ous of her husband’s timidity. Thus the old battle 
of “my people” and “your people,” which has 
ruined so many married lives, began again. 

She refrained from asking her relatives to the 
house, it is true, but she claimed the right to be with 
them as much as possible : took to going about with- 
out a hat; and once when Strang himself , in a burst 
of weak jealousy went after her, he found her bare- 
footed ; sitting on the steps of her grandmother’s van 
peeling potatoes, with Sam lolling at her side. 

Merwin had refused to come home; she was busy; 
her time was her own; she would come when she 
chose, no sooner. 


290 


SIMPSON’S PEACE AGAIN BROKEN 


“Home!” she replied bitterly: “it may be your 
home, but it’s none o’ mine. A coffin ’ud be more 
like home : the ghosts in the churchyard better com- 
pany than your whey-blooded folk.” 

“ I don’t care what you say. It’s your home and 
I ’m your husband, and you ’ve got to obey me and 
come when I tell you,” cried Strang, white with pas- 
sion, and caught at her arm: on which Sam had 
jumped up and would have attacked him had not 
Merwin bade him “let be,” saying he was woman’s 
work, worth no man’s handling: then dared him go 
home and tell his mammy what she said. 

And Strang had gone, because he was utterly help- 
less: did not know what to do next: feared Sam, 
and was ashamed of his fear, though he tried to 
persuade himself that he took the only dignified 
course. 

A couple of hours later, after dark, he heard his 
“wife” wish her cousin a loud, laughing good-night 
at the very door — held open by the scandalised par- 
lour-maid — then go straight up to bed; and tor- 
tured himself wondering what they had been doing, 
how they had talked of him; though in truth Mer- 
win, after following his departure with miserable 
eyes, had finished her work in gloomy silence; then 
taken the potatoes into the van and set to work pre- 
paring a meal for her grandmother ; never addressing 
the young man again till he met her halfway home 
and begged to go with her. Even then she hardly 
spoke, and the laughter was all for Strang’s benefit, 
291 


SIMPSON 


for she held a primitive belief that love might be 
stung to life by jealousy. 

As may be imagined, Market Charlford was all 
alive with talk of Strang’s “gipsy wife” : talk which 
buzzed out as far as Long Ilkley and Little Ilkley, 
even penetrated to Burlaps, and on the other side 
to Upshott. Thus it was that, for every one’s sake, 
Simpson was glad to see that the camp shifted. If 
Merwin had seemed happy he could almost have 
wished her gone also. For the life she lived was im- 
possible, and it seemed no good trying to judge her 
by ordinary standards of morality. He had known 
how it would be ; she was life incarnate and Strang 
like a death’s head. But she was not happy; would 
not have been happy if she had gone. For he was 
shrewd enough to realise that her bitter resentment 
against her husband was the outcome of a still liv- 
ing passion ; that, though the vicinity of her own peo- 
ple had excited her, it had not made her any more 
content. 

It was after nine by the time Simpson got home, 
had a bath and sat down; dreamily happy with a 
sense of hugging his loneliness, for somehow Parri- 
fleet did not count. One’s soul remained the same in 
his company : for he was one of those rare people with 
whom it is possible to be silent without any sense of 
restraint. And Simpson’s mood was one of silence; 
for during the long-drawn-out sweetness of those 
mid-summer days he experienced again that sensa- 
tion of waiting for something, which had come to 
292 


SIMPSON’S PEACE AGAIN BROKEN 


him with his very first sight of Fountains: a feeling 
of expectancy, which on such evenings as this took 
the definite form of an immense, clear, blue, open 
space where a woman’s face hung like the moon in a 
clear sky. 

Dinner over, he walked up and down the terrace 
smoking and thinking. It was seventeen months 
since he had seen his “Beatrice d’Este lady,” as he 
called her. He had expected the memory to weaken. 
But rather it had strengthened, helped him to fresh 
subtleties in her face; as though he saw her every 
day, and had so grown to know her better. 

At one time, but that was in the spring before 
Desmond’s death, the memory had strengthened to 
a fierce desire to speak with, to touch, the woman 
herself: a desire which ultimately drove him to 
London, where, for a fortnight, he haunted every 
possible place where she might be seen; persistently 
and extravagantly doing two or three theatres every 
night ; remaining in each for only so long as sufficed 
him to scan the occupant of every box and stall ; and, 
if possible, the dress-circle ; obsessed by the idea that 
as he had seen her first at a theatre, it was there that 
they would again meet. 

Soon after eleven, seeing Jervis moving about the 
house putting out the lights and shutting windows, 
he went indoors, thinking that he would go up to his 
own room and read in bed. 

But his day was doomed to have no such peace- 
ful ending. For, just as he was lighting a candle in 
293 


SIMPSON 


the hall, the bell outside the newly closed door was 
pulled violently, clanging through the quiet house, 
again and again without a pause. 

Jervis came running downstairs; but by that time 
Simpson had got the bolts undone and flung open the 
door, to find Strang standing on the steps. 

“ What — ” he began, for though the man’s mouth 
was open he did not speak — then he waved back 
the servant. “All right, Jervis; you can go to bed. 
I ’ll finish shutting up,” he said and laid his hand on 
the lawyer’s arm. 

“Come indoors and sit down; then you can tell 
me what’s wrong.” 

“I can’t sit down.” Strang spoke with a curious 
hiccough like a drunken man; then he took out a 
handkerchief and wiped his brow. “ Forgive me, I ’m 
exhausted — was in a hurry — I had driven to Bur- 
laps and only just got home, my horse was tired.” 
For a moment he paused, then added lamely, as if 
glad of some commonplace subject — “It’s not far 
across the fields — a pleasant walk — quite a pleas- 
ant walk on an evening like this.” 

“You didn’t come here at half-past eleven at 
night to tell me that.” 

“No, no; of course not! You must forgive me — 
unreasonable hour — and all that. But — but” — 
he moved a little into the light of the hall as he spoke, 
and Simpson saw that his face was ghastly — “I 
want to borrow a horse and trap. I — I — ” Again 
he hesitated, and then burst out, with a curious ges- 
294 


SIMPSON’S PEACE AGAIN BROKEN 


ture of his hands, like a woman: “ She’s gone! gone 
off with those people of hers : I got back from a hard 
day’s work at Burlaps to be met by that news.” 

“What, that she had gone with them?” 

“No, that they had gone. BurforcL — you know 
he ’s one of the councillors — stopped me on the way, 
and told me they had moved their camp, gone off 
Upshott way: — ‘Better keep your doors locked, 
Strang,’ he said with a damnable sneer. I’d have 
knocked him down, but what would have been the 
good?” he went on. “One can’t do those sort of 
things in these days: besides, he’s a client, an in- 
fluential man. Anyhow, I was only too glad to hear 
they were gone. And I went home and straight up 
to her room, feeling happier, more light-hearted than 
I had done for weeks: to find her gone. Gone! Just 
when I was thinking that all might come right.” He 
spoke with petulant self-pity. 

“How do you know?” 

“She was nowhere in the house. She had been in 
her room since morning. — Lydia said she heard her 
crying — then she went out about six o’clock. It 
was ten when I got back. She had n’t returned ; no 
one had seen her. Mary says she was off at the camp 
early this morning, directly I left. What do you 
make of that, eh? Curse her! she’s brought me 
nothing but trouble, I might have known.” 

“It’s no good talking of what might have been.” 

“Well, what am I to do now, tell me that?” It 
was the old cry. “ I came off here all upset, meaning 
295 


SIMPSON 


to borrow a horse and trap, go after her; knowing 
you would help me. But what will I do with her if 
I bring her back? I can’t take her home to my 
mother and sisters after — after — ” 

“ Damn your mother and sisters ! ” burst out Simp- 
son, and swung off in the direction of the stable. 

“Where are you going?” Strang caught at his 
arm. 

“To wake up Clarke and get the bay harnessed.” 

“I don’t know — Perhaps — perhaps, after all, 
it would be best to wait till morning — what do you 
think? There’ll be a row — they’re a rough lot.” 

“And you mean to say” — Simpson turned* round 
and stared in amazement — “ that you ’d let a woman 
who loves you go to hell for fear of a row!” 

“Love!” Strang laughed almost hysterically. 
“Love, — when she’s run off with another man.” 

“By God, supposing she has, — and, mind you, 
we don’t know it yet, — it’s your own fault. If a 
woman ever loved any man, your wife loved you, 
Strang — though the Lord only knows why! If 
she ’s gone, she ’s well out of it. Though remember 
this — if you leave her with those people to-night 
— make no effort to find her — you need n’t come 
here again, expecting me to help you.” 

“To-night — it’s night.” Strang spoke with a 
gasp, as though he suddenly realised the fact: then 
began to tremble. “She went off with him — I know 
she went off with him, Simpson. They were always 
together laughing and talking; rolling their eyes at 
296 


SIMPSON’S PEACE AGAIN BROKEN 


each other, and now — now ! ” For a moment he hes- 
itated, then added weakly: “She had everything she 
wanted — everything — and that coarse brute of a 
fellow!” 

Simpson stood still, gently tapping with one foot 
on the gravel. “You came for a horse and trap,” he 
said, speaking slowly and stolidly in his effort to 
hide his furious impatience. 

“ I know — I thought — I thought — But what 
am I to do?” 

“Do what you like. I can’t go after your wife, 
bring her back where she’s not wanted.” 

For a moment or so Strang’s pale eyes searched 
the surrounding landscape. Then, with a sudden 
burst of resolution, he turned to Simpson. “I’ll go 
— if only for proofs. I ’ll go — and if I find her in 
that fellow’s arms, by God, I ’ll — I ’ll — ” 

“Run away!” muttered the other man beneath 
his breath and moved off to the stable-yard. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


STRANG MAKES SOME EFFORTS TO PLAY THE MAN 

All through that long drive Strang only spoke twice, 
and each time it was to repeat the same words : — 

“She had everything she wanted.” 

As for Simpson he was thinking what right he 
had to be party to such a proceeding: to drag a 
woman back to a life she was utterly unsuited to, and 
a man unsuited to her: to perpetuate a miserable 
blunder out of sheer conventionality. But, for all 
that, some inherent spirit of lawfulness forced him to 
drive on, with Strang more than half unwilling, at 
his side. 

The country smelt deliciously; each hedgerow a 
trail of sweetness. There was moonlight and mist; 
and once, from a tiny coppice, they heard a night- 
ingale’s note. It was a night for love and romance, 
not for sordid tragedy, or still more sordid passion : 
a night of wasted beauty. 

They passed the farm where Simpson had been 
that afternoon. And then, three miles farther on, 
they came to the gipsies’ camp, pitched on the wide 
grass margin of the road. 

Every light was out, and all in silence, till some cur 
heard them and barked, awaking a dozen more like 
echoes. 


298 


STRANG’S EFFORTS TO PLAY THE MAN 


Still no light showed. And Simpson, getting out 
of the trap, stumbled through the camp, with the 
dogs yapping at his heels : found the van with the grey 
horse hobbled near it, for no tents were pitched and 
the halt was plainly temporary : banged at the side 
and shouted. 

Then a light was struck, not from within but from 
underneath, and Sam rolled out: stumbled sleepily 
to his feet, and with his hand shielding a match 
peered into Simpson’s face. 

“What the hell do you want? Oh, it’s you, Mr. 
Simpson : beg pardon, but it ’s a damned queer time 
to be waking honest people out of their sleep.” 

“I’m sorry. But the fact is there ’s some trouble.” 
Simpson seldom jumped to conclusions, and he hesi- 
tated now, doubtful howto express himself. “Mr. 
Strang’s worried about his wife. It appears that 
she went out this afternoon and has n’t returned.” 

“What’s that ter me?” The man’s voice was 
sullen. 

“He thinks that — ” 

“That I ’ve got her, eh? Then, why don’t he come 
and look for her himself, the louse ! instead o’ sendin’ 
another chap after his woman? Afraid, eh? Afraid 
— I reckoned he wur that sort the first time I ever 
set eyes on him.” The man spoke with savage con- 
tempt. 

“As it happens he ’s in the trap now. And remem- 
ber this, Sam, he has the law on his side.” 

“There ain’t no law, as ever I heard tell on, as 
299 


SIMPSON 

can force a woman to go back ter any man against 
her mind.” 

“Then she’s here.” 

“If she were I ’d break her neck liefer than let her 
go back to a white-livered cur such as yon.” 

“Is she here?” repeated Simpson quietly. 

With an oddly dramatic gesture the gipsy flung 
his arms wide, as if to say, “Would these be empty if 
she were?” 

But still the other persisted. 

“Is she here?” 

“No, she’s not — damn you!” snarled the man. 
By now a dozen dark forms had crept up from 
under the vans, with an ominous mutter of resent- 
ment. Some one lit a lantern; and as it was held 
up to get a better view of the intruders, Simpson 
caught a fair sight of the young gipsy’s haggard and 
morose face. Certainly he did not look like a success- 
ful lover, and all his old belief in Merwin revived. 
She might have left her home; be actually in the 
camp ; but certainly not as this man’s mistress. 
“Will you come and tell Strang that?” 

“Eh, that I will!” muttered Sam: moved forward 

— with half a dozen men at his heels, and a cluster 
of half-clothed women whispering in the background 

— and leant threateningly over the splashboard of 
the trap. 

“What’s this I hear tell on? What the hell are 
you doin’ here? You’d best get along to your 
mammy, or you’ll be sorry for it.” 

300 


STRANG’S EFFORTS TO PLAY THE MAN 


“Aye,” shrilled a feminine voice: — “we’ve had 
enough o’ the like o’ him.” 

And then some one hissed, a long-drawn, sibilant 
hiss, such as is used to start two dogs at each other’s 
throat. 

Simpson saw Strang gather himself together with 
a shudder. Then he spoke, shrilly defiant. 

“ I want my wife.” 

There was a rough laugh, and a woman shrieked 
out some obscenity, while Sam caught at the lan- 
tern and held it so close to Strang’s face that he was 
forced to shrink back. 

4 ‘Now, look here. If yer aren’t man enough to 
keep yer wife, it’s your business, not ourn. An’ it’s 
no good cornin’ whinin’ round here for her. Her’s 
right as said we ’d had enough o’ yer kind ; more nor 
enough. Yer got the finest girl in the whole country- 
side, an’ yer did n’t know how to use her. If yer 
want to get off with whole bones, yer’d better go. 
By God! I don’t know how I keep my hands off 
yer! Now, git — do yer hear me, git!” 

“I’ll not go without my wife!” persisted Strang; 
his voice rising almost to a scream. 

“ By God, I ’ll break yer bloody neck if yer don’t! 
Yer can’t say I ’ve not given yer fair warnin’.” 

“She’s not ’ere, I can tell you that!” cried a 
woman. 

“ Do yer hear? Now, go ! ” 

“I don’t believe it — I’ll not go!” Strang spoke 
shrilly, with all the desperate obstinacy of a weak 
3 01 


SIMPSON 


man. “Or if I do, it’ll only be to fetch the police. 
By God, I ’ll have the whole place searched! — I ’ll 
have you turned out of the country. But I ’ll not go, 
I’ll not!” 

“Be quiet, Strang; what’s the good of all that? 
They’ve told you she’s not here,” put in Simpson. 

“And you believe that? You ’re taken in by that? ” 
Strang laughed harshly. “You don’t know them as 
I do, the whole damned crew! But I ’ll not leave her 
here to-night — to-night with that blackguard. She ’s 
my wife — mine ! An’ I ’ll show her — I ’ll teach her. 
She’s here, I tell you. Where else should she be?” 

“Well, get out o’ that there trap an’ look for her, 
if you don’t believe our word.” It was an elderly 
man who spoke, moving forward from among the 
others and putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder. 
“Out o’ this, my boy; we don’t want no trouble 
here.” 

“It’s my business.” The young fellow spoke 
sulkily, but for all that he moved on one side. 

“It’ll be the business o’ all o’ us if the police are 
brought about our ears. Now, then, you get down, 
sir, an’ come along with me if you don’t believe our 
words — both you gentlemen. And you, Peter, you 
hold that there horse.” 

Shaking with mingled fear and defiance, Strang 
climbed to the ground; and they were led round 
the camp; peered beneath the first two vans; then 
opened the doors, and flashed the light into the eyes 
of the half-awakened children. Strang, with all the 
3 02 


STRANG’S EFFORTS TO PLAY THE MAN 


suspicion of a small nature, persisting in entering: 
searching under the bunks and in every corner. 

Simpson never forgot the picture laid bare to his 
unwilling eyes. The dark, crowded interiors heaped 
with multi-coloured clothing: the flushed glow of 
the children’s faces, their great dark eyes blinking 
in the pale light of the lantern ; and Strang, peering in 
among them, white and drawn, like a soul in torment. 

At last they reached the Lovell van and peered 
under it; while a curious murmur rose from the 
crowd who had gathered closer. 

But though there were a couple of rugs where 
Sam had lain, and a half-grown lad still asleep, there 
was nothing more. And passing round by the front — 
which was tightly closed — they moved to the back 
of the van ; where they found Sam himself, on guard 
at the bottom of a little flight of steps. 

“I'll not have ’em in here,” he said; and again 
that curious murmur went round the crowd, a sound 
almost like a sob. “ I ’ll not have ’em pryin’ here!” 
he repeated with an oath. 

Again Strang laughed, almost triumphantly: — 
“She’s here — what did I tell you, Simpson?” he 
cried, his voice high with excitement. 

“There’s no living woman in that there van, you 
can take my word for that,” said the elderly gipsy 
gravely. 

“And you expect me to believe you? You show 
me all of them except the one where she lived. Do 
you think I’m so easily fooled?” 

303 


SIMPSON 


“Well, take the lantern and go yourself — the 
other gentleman has more faith in our word. Stand 
aside, Sam, an’ let him pass.” 

The young fellow moved back, but as Strang put 
his foot on the first step he pushed forward again, 
and for a moment Simpson thought he meant to 
strike him; but he merely snatched off his hat and 
threw it on the ground. 

“Hats off when yer goin’ to see a lady,” he said. 
And, too excited even to resent the action, Strang 
sprang up the steps: fumbled a moment at the latch, 
then flung open the door. 

He was holding the lantern in front of him, while 
his figure blocked the opening so completely that 
Simpson could see nothing, except that he stood 
there motionless, apparently staring in front of him. 

The next minute, he swung round, pulled the door 
to behind him, and stood on the little platform; his 
face whiter than ever, while the lantern, still held 
high in his trembling hand, cast dancing circles of 
light over the silent group beneath him. 

“ Did yer find what yer was seekin’ ? ” There was 
malice in the elderly man’s voice : but it seemed to 
recall Strang to himself, for he moved slowly down 
the steps and handed him the lantern. 

“No, you were right; she is not there. I — I’m 
sorry; I wronged you. Come, Simpson, there’s 
nothing more to be done,” he said. He stooped, 
picked up his hat, and mechanically smoothed it over 
w r ith his sleeve: then, with bent head and dragging 

304 


STRANG’S EFFORTS TO PLAY THE MAN 


step, moved over to the trap ; where Simpson — 
after waiting a moment to press some money into the 
gipsy’s hand — followed him. 

Just as he gathered up the reins, however, Sam 
leant forward across the side and spoke to Strang. 

“If it were n’t for her, by God, I’d ’a’ killed yer 
before I ’d let yer go. An’ I tell you this : I fought her 
this very day at dawn ter come along an’ bide with 
me: she as has been the sun an’ the moon an’ the 
stars an’ the whole world to me ever since she wur a 
lil lass, an’ she would n’t. An’ why, a’cause a’ yer — 
yer, without one drop o’ red blood in yer veins ! But 
look yer now. If yer don’t mind yer ways, an’ make 
’er happier nor what yer have done, — give her a 
home as is a home, — by Christ, I ’ll swing for yer ! 
Do you hear? If them was my last words I ’d say 
’em. An’ we ’d meet in hell for the way you ’ve served 
that girl, sure as there’s a God above us!” he said: 
flung up his hand with a dramatic gesture; and 
turning on his heel walked away. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


IT APPEARS THAT MERWIN HAS ALREADY TAKEN 
MATTERS INTO HER OWN HANDS 

The drive home seemed unending. 

Somehow, out of the clear beauty of the night, 
had come a dark and drizzling dawn. Simpson was 
tired to the soul : depressed beyond all words by this 
tragedy to which there seemed no end ; longing to be 
quiet ; for out of sheer nerve excitement — a desire to 
convince and justify himself — Strang talked on with- 
out ceasing, till his companion could have wrung his 
neck for him. 

41 It was a dead woman; an old woman. That 
grandmother Merwin was so fond of. When I opened 
the door, I felt sure I ’d find my wife — I did n’t 
believe a word they said — I felt sure ! And there 
was that old creature — horrible ! Horrible ! Lying 
facing the door, with her eyes wide open. 

“Why did n’t Merwin tell me she was dead? But 
she never told me anything, never put any confi- 
dence in me — her husband,’’ he went on petulantly. 
“And you would have thought her so frank and 
open — but women are beyond me. 

“That was old Granny Lovell — who had all the 
money. I suppose they were taking her away; not 
306 


MERWIN ARRANGES MATTERS 

telling Merwin about it for fear she should put in a 
claim. But where’s Merwin? That’s the trouble. 
Perhaps I ’ll find her when I get back. Don’t you 
think so, Simpson? She may have gone a long walk 
and lost her way. Perhaps she was fretting about the 
old woman. I ’ll do all I can to make up. We might 
go away for a week. But I don’t know if I can man- 
age it — there ’s my mother and sisters to be thought 
of. And they say old Mr. Princep’s dying; he may 
want to make another will. No, no, it would never 
do to be away. 

“I’m sorry I misjudged Merwin — ashamed. 
After all, she did n’t go with them — but where is 
she? Where did she go? You know she was — ” 
he broke off sharply. “When there are things before 
marriage — naturally a man thinks — suspects : do 
you wonder I was frightened? 

“What a night it’s been! And a busy day to- 
morrow; I don’t know how in the world I shall get 
through it. Look here, Simpson, don’t turn up the 
road to my house : I ’ll get out, if you don’t mind, and 
walk — slip in without awaking any one. I expect I 
shall find Merwin — it will be all right: things settle 
themselves somehow. It only needs a little patience ; 
I ’m always telling her that. Good-night, Simpson ; — 
I can never thank you enough for all you ’ve done — 
never.” 

He climbed slowly out of the high trap: white 
and worn, a stubble of light beard on his chin, his 
blue eyes bloodshot, his black suit thick with dust: 

307 


SIMPSON 


a pitiable-looking creature in the drizzling dawn: 
stretched across the splashboard to shake hands 
with Simpson: then suddenly crimsoned. 

“ I did love her — do love her! God knows I love 
her! But you know how it is, how afraid a man gets 
when there has been — when he knows.” Again he 
hesitated; then jerked himself upright. “But it will 
be all right now — we must settle something — 
arrange differently. If only I could see a way out.” 

The household were astir by the time Simpson 
reached Fountains. And feeling sleep out of the 
question, he ordered an early breakfast; bathed and 
shaved, and then sat down to it, endeavouring at the 
same time to fix his mind on the morning paper. 

But between him and the affairs ofthe nation came 
those of the wretched couple with whom he seemed 
to have become so intimately involved. He had no 
faith in Strang's sudden access of optimism. Things 
do not come right by merely waiting, while there is 
a species of patience which is more killing than any 
revolt. That was the sort of patience which Mer- 
win herself had been practising during the last six 
months. As for Strang he might think he was going 
to alter everything. But there was no inward force 
to push him on. To the end he would mean well: 
hesitate, doubt ; finally taking the well-worn path of 
letting “I dare not wait upon I will.” 

People did not change : Strang was as unalterable 
in his weakness as his wife in her strength, her pain, 
her superstitions. They were born with certain 
308 


MERWIN ARRANGES MATTERS 


characteristics, just as they were born with certain 
shaped noses ; time might modify, but that was all it 
could do. 

For no particular reason his mind went back to 
the last time he had been walking with Merwin, when 
a chaffinch — a “chuvion” as she called it — had 
fluttered, twittering, along the hedge in front of 
them: a sign, she said, that the camp would soon be 
moved. 

“ Which camp?” he had asked. 

“Oh, any camp — the camp of life,” she replied 
sombrely. And though he had laughed he realised 
at the time that there was nothing to laugh at: 
that — however ridiculous the abstract belief itself 
might be — her faith was so great as to impel it to 
become a fact. It was the same in all her supersti- 
tions; when she believed that a certain sign meant 
joy or grief, her mind would so dwell on it that for 
her, at least, the joy or grief would certainly come. 

No, nothing would alter either of them. It was as 
he had said at the very beginning, a case of fire and 
water. And with a sigh he was turning to the finan- 
cial column of the “Times,” thinking that here, at 
any rate, was something he could understand, when 
Jervis came hurrying into the room; his expression 
a strange blend of excitement and horror. 

“ Please, sir, the baker has just come from Market 
Charlford, sir.” 

“ Well? ” In a moment Simpson’s mind had leapt 
back to the Strangs. 


309 


SIMPSON 


“He says as how a bricklayer coming across from 
Long Ilkley this morning between six and seven, by 
the little footpath — perhaps you know it, sir — as 
runs between Ilkley and Charlford, past that there 
pond — ” the man hesitated. 

“Yes — yes?” 

“Well, it was there he found her, sir, saw some- 
thing in the water. It ain’t any depth, not above a 
couple of feet: but there she was, face downward, 
and dead ; must have been dead a fairish time, or so 
the doctor said when they got her out.” 

“Who are you talking about?” Simpson had 
risen, shaking from head to foot, trying to believe 
he did n’t understand ; though in the moment which 
elapsed before Jervis’s answer the words — “When 
the chuvion twitters, it’s a sign the camp ’ull be 
moved” — pattered through his head, with an odd 
emphasis on each syllable as though the words them- 
selves were running with the news. 

“Mrs. Strang, sir; — no wonder Mr. Strang was 
in such a taking last night : a terrible thing — ter- 
rible. An’ her lying dead there all the time, poor girl 
— poor lady, I should say. But there, it may be all 
for the best. Shall I clear away, sir?” 

Fate — Providence — call it what you will — 
shows a grim humour at times. He and Strang had 
been making their little plans : re-shuffling the cards : 
trying to arrange all the issues of this queer game of 
life: the stake — as is so often the case — a woman’s 
life. And all the time they had been playing like 
310 


MERWIN ARRANGES MATTERS 


children, with a discarded, mutilated pack, while the 
game was really over, lifted forever out of their hands, 
decided for them. 

It was no use seeking any possible end, for the 
end had come. But, with the curious perversity of 
fatigue, Simpson’s mind hovered round the subject, 
conjecturing as to what might have been done; the 
state of mind in which she had gone to her death: 
with her child lost, her grandmother — who had 
been a mother to her — dead : — forced to deny the 
one love offered: faced by the dreary monotony of 
an existence which could only grow more drab as 
time advanced. 

After all, it was, as Jervis said, all for the best 
in its ending : if one could only forget the appalling 
waste of human feeling. She was a martyr to life, — 
the exuberant life which ran so warmly through her 
veins, — and had taken upon herself the only re- 
taliation possible. As for Strang, Simpson had no 
qualms about him. There would be a storm of grief 
and self-reproach — followed by a sense of relief. 
And everything would go on just as it had done 
before. But, oh, the waste! 


I 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

BANKS RECEIVES YET ANOTHER, AND MOST 
UNEXPECTED CHECK 

Extraordinarily melancholy season, autumn is, 
— eh, what? Autumn in the country, I mean,” 
complained Banks. “Seasons in Town don’t seem to 
matter; there’s always something going on.” 

“There’s always something going on here, if you 
were n’t purblind to everything that does n’t cost a 
small fortune to keep going,” responded Simpson: 
rather inaudibly, for he held a tress of baste in his 
mouth; being busied tying up creepers in the wide 
herbaceous border which ran along one side of the 
walled garden. 

“Oh, I don’t know; the country’s very beauti- 
ful, poetical, and all that, but it gives me the pip. 
Town ’s jolly — but then one gets sick of the Club — ” 
went on Banks discontentedly — “ and the same 
fellows every night; the same old round, the same 
sort of cooking — bridge, and all that.” 

“Well, why don’t you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

“Hand me that pruning-knife to begin with — 
marry, of course. You’ve been spoiling for matri- 
mony ever since you joined the Club. Sometimes I 
312 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


believe that's the only reason why you did join — 
to stimulate a jaded appetite." Simpson spoke 
rather irritably. 

“Well, there’s a good deal to be said for it and a 
good deal against it. But, ’pon my soul, I ’ve half 
a mind to try." 

“You can’t experiment. Matrimony’s not like a 
bottle of medicine : take a few doses and then throw 
it away if it does n’t agree with you,” remarked 
Simpson, still mindful of the tragedy of Merwin’s 
life. 

“Extraordinary you hitting on this very subject 
at all just now," went on Banks, immersed in his 
own plans. “ Perfectly extraordinary ! Second sight 
I suppose Parrifleet would call it. Matter of fact” — 
his tone was almost tender as he drew on a new pair 
of light-tinted gloves, with infinite care smoothing 
down each finger, opening and shutting his hand so 
as to ease it — “I was thinking of doing the deed 
this very day : at least, starting on the preliminaries 
— more or less committing myself. Though how 
you came to think of it beats me." 

“Nothing very wonderful considering you’ve 
asked the opinion of every soul about the place, not 
excepting Mrs. Bliss; binding us all to dead secrecy." 

“Of course, it’s a risk," went on Banks; brushing 
by this cynicism as though he had not heard it. “One 
really knows nothing about a woman until one’s 
married to her. Then it means giving up an awful 
lot, and all that. But, after all, one must make some 
3h3 


SIMPSON 


sacrifices for the tender passion — though, of course, 
things will never be the same again. One’s second 
love—” 

“Second!” ejaculated Simpson. 

“Well, what’s wrong with that — eh, what? You 
don’t mean to say you doubt I loved that Jezebel? — 
Knowing me as you do, seeing me as I was — ? It’s 
ruined my life, there’s no doubt about that; things 
can never be the same again. But there’s such a 
thing as a — a — a what do you call it — an Indian 
summer of the affections, my dear Simpson. And 
the fact is I want a home of some sort in Town. I ’ve 
got a lot of nice things knocking about all over the 
place. Besides, I feel I ought n’t to go back on the 
Strangs, after their misfortune and all that ; would n’t 
do to seem a prig. And now that poor creature ’s 
dead ; and I feel I might have led them on to think — 
to expect — Must behave decently, you know, for 
the sake of the Club, and all that — eh, what?” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, go and get it over. You 
stink like an apothecary’s shop: what ’s that 
beastly scent-stuff you ’ve got on you?” 

“I never use any scent, you might know that. 
It’s my brilliantine.” Banks took off his hat and 
passed his hand over the smooth, sparse fringe which 
garnished his baldness. “Do you think there’s too 
much of it — eh, what?” 

“ Too much what? ’’enquired Simpson, maliciously, 
busied over a huge truss of Michaelmas daisies, 
which had been beaten aside by the heavy rains of 
3H 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


the night before. “ There does n’t strike me as being 
too much of anything, either inside or outside of 
your head. Look here, hold this stuff while I tie it.” 

“Not I — it’s all dripping wet! When a man ’s 
going courting — ” 

“Oh, go to hell!” interrupted Simpson crossly, 
struggling with the mass of growth in one hand and 
a length of baste in the other. Then he suddenly 
relented. “I wish you luck, old fellow. But don’t 
be too sure. There’s her side of the question; you 
don’t seem to have even thought of that.” 

It was a ridiculous thing to say. Banks ruminated 
over it all the way to Market Charlford, sitting 
beside the chauffeur: for he had particularly wanted 
to wear that pair of gloves, and they were too tight 
to drive in. That a woman who had probably never 
received another proposal — or, anyhow, one that 
counted, else she would have been married before 
then — should see any side to his offer, apart from 
her own dazzling good fortune, was out of the ques- 
tion. Besides, there was that wretched marriage of 
her brother’s ; not many men would have overlooked 
that, though it was certainly not Lydia’s fault. And 
then she had no money : and she was at least thirty- 
five. Banks felt like a god descending from Olympus 
as his car rolled up to the Strangs’ door : and he got 
out slowly and with dignity — as he would have said 
for he was growing stout — rang the bell and asked 
for Mrs. Strang. 

“Mrs. Strang is not at home.” Mary spoke 
3i5 


SIMPSON 


stiffly, but she looked at him with an approving eye. 
He had been there several times and she guessed his 
errand. It was time something happened to coun- 
teract the mesalliance that had taken place in the 
family, or her own character might suffer. “Miss 
Strang is out, too, along with her mamma. But Miss 
Lydia is at home,” she added. 

On a sudden Banks felt inclined for flight. It 
seemed as if he was being nailed down, brought to 
the point by some unfair means; as if Lydia was 
sitting there waiting for him. H e liked his campaigns 
to be conducted with deliberate orderliness; had 
arranged in his own mind to speak to Mrs. Strang 
first, then to have Lydia summoned to him; had 
pictured the gratified pride on Mrs. Strang’s face: 
rehearsed her part as well as his own. 

It seemed almost indecent that Lydia should be 
there alone; on the very day he had determined to 
call and propose ; somehow flat like an opera without 
chorus or orchestra. And he would have handed in 
his card, murmured some excuse and retreated, had 
not Mary stood back with the door held wide; so 
that Banks felt in a way tricked : trapped between her 
and Simpson, who would be waiting at home to hear 
his news : fearfully excited and wound up about it all. 

Thus, almost mechanically, he advanced into the 
little hall: and took off his hat. “Will you ask Miss 
Lydia if she can spare me a few moments?” he 
said, and hung up the haj with a feeling of having 
virtually committed himself by the act. 

316 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


Shown into the stiff drawing-room, he moved 
about, looking at the china, and humming to himself. 
It was a good collection, would look well in a pan- 
elled room, plain shelves and recesses. Mrs. Strang 
ought to be generous about the china, as Lydia had 
no fortune; and Strang would not need it. It was 
not likely he would marry again. He was the sort old 
bachelors were made of. That affair with the gipsy 
had only been an authorised interlude, scarcely 
worthy of the name of marriage; the fact of there 
having been any ceremony at all only serving to 
accentuate the immorality of the whole affair. 

He did not expect to see Lydia at once. She 
would naturally feel flustered, wish to titivate a 
little. For to him the whole visit seemed so marked, 
he was so perfectly well aware of his own intentions, 
that he could not credit any one else with remaining 
in ignorance: being engrossed in any other affair; 
while it struck him as scarcely delicate of Mrs. 
Strang to have gone out in this fashion. 

Neither did it seem quite delicate of Lydia to 
appear so promptly as she did, — it looked almost 
too eager, — while he was examining the mark on 
the bottom of a fine piece of old Chelsea. 

“How are you, Miss Lydia — eh, what? Quite, 
quite well, I hope.” 

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Banks.” Miss Strang 
released her hand gently from Banks’s, which he had 
laid one on either side of it. “Mamma will be very 
sorry to miss you : she and Emma have gone out to 
3i7 


SIMPSON 


pay some calls this afternoon. But Gilbert will be 
back soon. Won’t you sit down?” 

She motioned her visitor to a chair and seated 
herself, the light full on her face. She was a little 
lined, her prettiness pinched and faded ; quite shock- 
ingly dressed, and Banks swelled with his sense of 
godhead as he drew his chair nearer. 

“ It ’s a lovely day, is n’t it — ? ” she began, for she 
never knew what to talk to him about: had vague 
ideas that it ought to be something to do with stocks 
and shares, the very thought of which set her brain 
in a whirl. 

“Lovely, quite lovely. But these autumn days 
strike me as being a little melancholy — eh, what?” 
suggested Banks. The idea had sounded well when 
first mooted to Simpson, and he had matured it 
during the drive. “Gives one a sense of loneliness; 
of wanting something to complete life — a sort of 
fruition, don’t you know — eh, what?” 

“Yes.” Lydia was regarding him with an odd 
coldness. He was fat and bald: the line of his jaw 
had already disappeared. He was prosy, prosaic, 
condescending. The first time he had called she had 
thought him rather wonderful: such a man of the 
world, so smart and well groomed. But her brother’s 
brief passion, Merwin’s fever of love, had taught her 
to fear life, and yet to expect more of it than she had 
ever done before. 

A year earlier, if her mother had said to her, 
“Marry Mr. Banks,” she would have married him 
318 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


almost automatically; without a single critical 
thought: delivered up her body and soul, saying her 
prayers quite placidly the night before, with a feeling 
that it was “nice” to be married; that she was ob- 
taining all, and more, than she had ever expected of 
life; that it was very kind of Mr. Banks to ask her; 
and that her only difficulty would be the ordering 
of the sort of dinners he liked, the mastery of the 
intricacies of a French menu as an integral part of 
matrimony. 

But now she was afraid : life was not so simple as 
it had seemed. Her brother’s marriage had ended 
in tragedy; but he had known joy and passion, let 
himself go for once — though the impetus had not 
been sufficient to carry him on. And now she wanted 
to let herself go — completely ; or else keep herself 
completely. She could do without. But she wanted 
no more half measures. Life had always been tepid : 
it was no good taking all sorts of risks for more 
tepidity. 

Suddenly all her starved womanhood broke up into 
a sort of fury against Banks : sitting there, a little on 
the edge of his chair: so smiling and sure-looking. 
She wanted one of two things: she wanted him to 
jump up and tear off those light kid gloves — which 
made his hands look like nothing human — and take 
her in his arms, brutally without any asking, crush 
her to him: kiss her roughly; beat her, shake her: do 
anything to show her he was alive, to make her feel 
alive — anything, however shocking! 

3i9 


SIMPSON 


She wanted this : or else she wanted to attack him : 
to box his ears, first one side and then the other, just 
to see how he would look : to take him by his plump, 
well-tailored shoulders and shake him. Once, years 
ago, she had stayed in London with some worldly- 
minded cousins who had taken her to a music-hall, 
where — at the time — the performance had shocked 
her beyond words, being young and Pharisaical. She 
had put away the very thought of it with horror. 

But now she remembered. In one duet between 
a man and a woman, the woman — clad in little 
beyond a frill and a pair of shoulder-straps — had 
emphasised her song by chucking the man under the 
chin with the point of her toe. Suddenly, as Banks 
rose to draw his chair a little nearer, Lydia Strang 
was seized with a desire to do the same: to watch his 
expression while she did it. But, beyond withdraw- 
ing her hand gently from his grasp and folding it 
above the other in her lap, she gave no sign of the 
volcano which raged within her. 

“Perhaps you can guess what I’ve come for — 
what I want to ask you?” 

“Yes.” Again the monosyllable: and Banks won- 
dered, rather impatiently, if she was stupid, or 
merely intensely shy. 

“ I think you must have guessed at the state of my 
affections. I can’t offer you a first love: and natu- 
rally one does not retain all the passion and romance 
of youth. But I can offer you a very sincere affection 
and I believe we shall be very happy. I am quite sure 
320 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 

you will consider my comfort, do all you can to help 
me.” 

At this point Lydia rose, and Banks, rising, too, 
faced her. “I was thinking of taking a house in 
London, but I dare say we shall be down here a good 
deal. I Ve picked up a good many odds and ends, 
china and such like.” His eyes roamed in the direc- 
tion of the Chelsea and Spode, on either side of the 
fireplace. 

“ I am not a gay person: have outgrown that per- 
petual desire for amusement. But I don’t think you 
are very gay either, and we shall be happy — eh, 
what? I ’m sure we shall be happy in our own quiet 
way. I ’m a bit of a sentimentalist, you know : look 
forward to my own hearth with the angel beside it.” 
He was holding her hands by now, and bent forward 
tentatively, as if to kiss her; but she drew back. 

Her pale face had flushed, however, while her eyes 
were brilliant with widely dilated pupils. And sud- 
denly Banks warmed. 

“Ton my soul, I’m very fond of you, Lydia, — 
you would be surprised if you knew how fond : how 
excited, elated I feel. How I look forward to our 
future together. I have got a little present here for 
you.” He drew forth a green morocco case as he 
spoke. “You told me you liked sapphires and dia- 
monds, and Parrifleet declares that they are lucky, 
bring happiness. I would n’t let him make this — 
his gold-work always seems to me rather clumsy, and 
I wanted something very nice — specially nice for 
321 


SIMPSON 


my little sweetheart. He shall make us something 
for our wedding: a rose bowl or something of that 
kind — eh, what? ” As he spoke he drew a half hoop 
ring from its nest of white velvet, and endeavoured 
to slip it on to Lydia’s finger. 

“Come, come, don’t be so shy with me. Why be 
shy with me — ? There! does n’t that look pretty? 
And then when we’re married — ” 

“I’m not going to — I won’t marry you!” Lydia 
spoke harshly; with all the crudeness of a person 
who is not used to denying any one anything: like 
a weak animal driven into a corner, showing fight 
for the first time in its life. 

“ But that’s nonsense — nonsense — eh, what? ” 
stammered Banks: “You let me put that ring on 
your finger — let me suppose — what will Mrs. 
Strang say?” 

“ I never let you do anything; you persisted. You 
never even asked me — cared to hear if I loved you. 
As to Mamma, that will come later.” She spoke 
grimly. Then, as though the thought of her mother 
had hardened, calmed her, took the ring from her 
finger, laid it in the palm of her hand, and regarded 
it curiously. 

“It’s a very handsome ring, it must have cost a 
lot of money. Perhaps eighty or ninety pounds.” 

“Ninety guineas,” blurted out Banks. 

“Ninety guineas: well, it was a very good guess. 
Ninety-four pounds ten — it’s a great deal of money. 
But it’s not enough. Take it back, please, Mr. 

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BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


Banks,” she went on, and held it out to him between 
her finger and thumb. 

“What do you mean? You don’t like it — eh, 
what?” 

“ I like it, but it’s not enough. Will you take it — 
no? Well, there!” With a sudden flick of her hand 
she sent the ring flying to the other end of the room. 

“Leave it; you can pick it up later. It’s perfectly 
safe. Even now I’ve not been quite rash enough 
to throw it out of the window — we ’re never quite 
rash enough to carry anything through to the end, 
we Strangs,” she went on, with a bitter laugh. “ But 
let it stay there while I have my say — for this once. 
You come here and take it for granted, in the most 
insolent manner, that I will marry you, without even 
the formality of asking. The ring was to seal the 
bargain — am I not right? Ninety pounds. No, 
I beg your pardon, ninety-four pounds ten!” she 
laughed; then repeated, “Ninety-four pounds ten! 
To buy me for life : to keep me at hand for your con- 
venience: to look after your china and order your 
dinner, and always be there when you want me. 

“Do you know what I once heard? That men 
will sometimes pay women as much as twenty 
pounds for one night, and you offer me ninety-four 
pounds ten in exchange for my every night and 
every day. And the ring still yours if I happened to 
die first, for jewels like that do not depreciate in 
value. You come here and offer me this with conde- 
scension and magnanimity ; because I’m a country 
323 


SIMPSON 


lawyer’s daughter, because you think I never had 
such a chance before. But you ’re wrong. I ’ve had 
plenty of chances: more than I could count on the 
fingers of my two hands; from men above you in 
position, in wealth, in every way. You think no one ’s 
ever loved me, because I did not choose to marry, 
and am faded and badly dressed. You’re not even 
sorry for me : merely condescending. But you forget 
this : that I have got what every man desires — a 
woman’s body : the one thing that will always fetch 
its price. That, over and above this, I have a wo- 
man’s heart and soul: which is beyond any price 
that you, or any other man, can pay: excepting by 
love and service. If I marry, I want a real marriage, 
with real love and passion: not starvation, with a 
pretence that is worse than nothing. 

“And there ’s another thing. You think that I’m 
passee ; that I ’ve no experience — and no beauty. 
But you ’ve never stood back and looked at yourself 
as you ’ve looked at me. What are your experiences, 
after all? Paddling and splashing in a pretence of 
passion — playing bo-peep with life. 

“And if I am passee” — Lydia spoke shrilly, a 
bright spot of colour flaming on either cheek — “ and 
after all, I’m only thirty — do you know what you 
are? you ’re more than pass6e, you ’re old ! — Twenty 
years older than I am ! Fat and ugly, and worst of 
all, ridiculous. There — ” suddenly she came to a 
pause. “I’ve had my say.” 

She whipped out her handkerchief and wiped her 

324 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


lips. The colour had faded from her face; once more 
it was a network of fine lines and grey shadows. “ I ’ ve 
never spoken out before: I don’t suppose I shall ever 
speak out again : but I ’m glad I ’ve done it. I shall 
suffer for it, Mamma will see to that — but still I ’m 
glad. I ’ve been vulgar — bold — coarse. I did n’t 
know that I knew such things — I never guessed I 
could feel so. But somehow it hurt — that any one 
should dare to take my consent for granted as you 
did. For you don’t love me : not in that sort of way. 
The way I want, have been accustomed to — you 
know you don’t?” 

Banks gave her a curious glance: — “No,” he 
said, with sudden honesty. Then he added: — “At 
least, I did n’t”: for he was beginning to wonder. 

He looked rather ridiculous; his round face whiter 
than usual and a little flabby, his whole appearance 
that of a man who has been utterly disconcerted. 
But suddenly Lydia saw him as a human being: felt 
sorry for him : realised how she had hurt his vanity : 
as sensitive, as susceptible to pain, as worthy of 
consideration as his body, which she would have 
shrunk from the very idea of torturing. 

“I’m sorry.” She coloured painfully, twisting one 
thin hand within the other : miserably ashamed and 
self-conscious once the unexpected flame, which 
sprang up within her, had sunk. “ I don’t know how 
I could speak to you so — be so unladylike. What 
would Mamma say!” 

“I don’t think that matters much — there does 
325 


SIMPSON 


not seem any necessity to tell her,” replied Banks: 
partly animated by a sincere desire to shield Lydia, 
partly by a dread of appearing ridiculous. 

“She will know. But I don’t think — I don’t feel 
that I need tell her — repeat all I said.” 

“You said some very cruel things.” Banks rose 
with a feeling of bewilderment, even dizziness, and 
looked round for his hat. Then he remembered having 
hung it in the hall with an almost painful sense of 
committal. “I think I’d better be goin’ — dinner 
an’ all that — eh, what?” Still he hesitated: oddly 
white, and blinking as though he had received a blow. 

Lydia wrung her hands. “I don’t know what to 
say. I can’t hope you’ll ever forgive me.” 

A shrewd, rather ugly look came into Banks’s 
eyes. “You mean that you didn’t intend — that 
you’ve changed your mind?” 

“No — no. Oh, no, never — never! I’m only 
ashamed that I spoke as I did — said so much that 
was unnecessary, for Gilbert’s sake — ” 

“You need n’t think that it will make any differ- 
ence in my relations with your brother. I’m not 
quite so despicable as all that — eh, what?” 

“ No — no — I don’t. It was n’t really you at all 

— at least not altogether : everything in life seemed 
to have been goading me on.” 

“And I put the finishing touch. Look here, Miss 
Lydia, I know how it was.” Banks spoke with a 
directness and manliness that he seldom displayed 

— showing for a moment that under- vein of genuine 

326 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


kindness that had made Simpson his friend. “I 
spoke and behaved like a cad. I don’t know why, 
except I suppose I am one. It was n’t from any lack 
of respect for you — that I regarded you lightly. 
But one gets into the way of discounting a woman’s 
side of things : and the older one gets the worse one 
becomes. You Ve given me a lesson. I can’t say I 
liked it; but I can say that I honour you for it. 
That’s why” — for a moment he hesitated, then 
added with genuine honesty — “I was half afraid 
you were going to change your mind. I wonder if 
you understand what I mean — eh, what?” 

“I think, perhaps I do,” answered Lydia gently. 

“ I was like a kid that ’s been spanked : too sore to 
be touched. Well, I think I’ll be goin’ now.” Once 
more he looked round for his hat, then remembered, 
with a real sense of regret. Never again would he feel 
certain of anything. 

“ Good-bye, Miss Lydia.” He took her hand and 
held it for a moment between his. Her face was 
twitching, her nose rather red, her eyes full of tears. 
But curiously enough, for the first time, he felt a real 
impulse of love, a desire to take her in his arms and 
kiss her. “Good-bye, and I hope — perhaps some 
other fellow will be more fortunate than I have been.” 

At the door he heard her call him, in an oddly 
strained voice, and turned. 

She was standing in the middle of the floor, her 
hands clasped in front of her, so tightly that the 
veins stood out upon them. 

327 


SIMPSON 


“I want to tell you: I feel it’s only honest — fair 
— It was a lie.” 

Again the curious feeling of disappointment came 
over Banks — she was like all other women, she had 
only been drawing him on: and with this thought 
came a repetition of that same feeling with which he 
had hung up his hat. 

“What do you mean?” 

“That — what I told you — ” 

“Which — what— ?” 

“That I’d had proposals: men wanting to marry 
me before — more than I could count on the fingers 
of both hands. It ’s not true — it ’s all a lie — you ’re 
the first.” 

“A poor first!” Banks spoke almost gaily. 

“Oh, well, you can’t help that,” Lydia answered 
with gauche sincerity: hesitated a moment, then 
added : “And the other — the other thing I told you : 
about my age — ” 

“Oh, that does n’t matter — is no affair — ” 

“It does matter: I mean to be honest with you. 
I ’m not thirty, I ’m thirty-six — in my thirty- 
seventh year. Now — that’s all. Now you know 
how much reason I have to be ashamed of myself.” 

“But, my dear Miss Lydia, one doesn’t expect 
a w oman — in a case like this — ” 

“I know — ” Miss Strang’s mouth twisted into 
a rather whimsical smile: — “That was the begin- 
ning of it. You expected so little, so far as I was con- 
cerned — that I scarcely seemed to count. And now 
328 


BANKS RECEIVES ANOTHER CHECK 


— now I ’m going to ask you to go. Mamma will be 
in in a moment. She said half-past six — she ’s al- 
ways punctual — and I ’d rather face it out alone.” 

“Why tell her at all? Why tell her I ’ve even been 
here?” 

“Oh, Mary will tell her that : and even if she did n’t, 
Mamma would know: she knows everything,” 
added Miss Strang bitterly. 

Banks reached home and crept into the house 
by some circuitous route : dreading to meet any one. 
Lydia Strang had made him feel almost magnan- 
imous at the last ; but her words, the fierce fire of her 
scorn, held too much of truth not to sting. He was 
fat: he was old. Yes, it was true: he was thirteen 
stone in weight to only five foot six in height : and 
he was fifty: still — after her confession — fourteen 
years older than Lydia, whom he had thought of, 
even spoken of, as “an old maid.” 

Dressing that night he fumbled over the tying of 
his tie, and would not let his man help him. He was 
exasperated with the fellow : thought he caught him 
grinning; thought the chauffeur must have guessed 
his errand and its result; had probably been talking 
to Mary; told the valet. For the whole affair ob- 
sessed Banks so that he imagined the world to be 
hanging on it. 

He even contemplated going to bed, having his 
dinner sent up to his room. But it would probably 
be half cold. Then he had brought down some par- 
ticularly fine salmon from Town, and they would not 
329 


SIMPSON 


send him salmon if they thought he was ill; Mrs. 
Bliss had fixed and terrible ideas about the feeding 
of invalids. 

So finally he went downstairs: very slowly, re- 
hearsing at every step the answers he would return 
to the torrent of questions, against which he men- 
tally braced himself. 

But no one asked him anything. Gale and Finch 
talked golf. Parrifleet had seen — or imagined he 
had seen — some vision which completely engrossed 
him ; and Kirkland never spoke. 

As for Simpson, he actually asked him if he had 
had a good time. And then — displaying a brutal 
lack of interest in the most vital affairs of his fellow- 
creatures and complete forgetfulness of the secret 
which had been entrusted to him — where he had 
been, and what he had done with himself. 

Thus it ended by Banks confiding it all, in the 
smoking-room after dinner, to each member in turn ; 
waxing quite enthusiastic: shining with a borrowed 
glow from what he was pleased to describe as “ that 
Lydia Strang’s damned fine spirit!” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


AGAR FINCH FORSAKES THE CLUB FOR WHAT SEEM 
LIKE VERY INSUFFICIENT REASONS 

“Oh, by the bye, George, I have an announce- 
ment to make to you.” It was Finch who spoke, 
standing before the fire in the library at Foun- 
tains, one evening after dinner during the late 
autumn. 

“Eh, what?— What’s that, eh?” 

“It is to Simpson, as the head of the Club, that 
I address myself, Banks: though the communica- 
tion is really more in your line. I ’m forced to resign 
my membership, George, — very reluctantly, — be- 
cause I have the honour to be the accepted suitor of 
Miss Lilian Fane.” Finch hesitated a moment, and, 
from his vantage-spot on the hearthrug, gazed round 
at the little group of members, with a cynical and 
amused smile. “You don’t somehow seem falling 
over each other in your hurry to congratulate me,” 
he went on: “is it that your feelings lie too deep for 
tears, or even words?” 

Simpson, smoking over the fire, looked up with a 
puzzled stare ; for somehow the tone of the communi- 
cation did not imply an event calling for any special 
congratulations. 


33i 


SIMPSON 

With twinkling eyes Finch answered his friends' 
unspoken thought. 

“No, you need n’t trouble. I once knew an old 
fellow who said he always waited for two years be- 
fore congratulating a couple: and then was usually 
spared the pains. Though I expect we shall jog along 
all right: we neither of us expect too much.” 

“But why — ?” 

“Well, really it’s a sort of partnership, which is 
a very sound basis to start upon. She’s got a good 
deal of money, wants to travel, and does n’t like 
travelling alone. I have very little — unless I grind 
away at perpetual pot-boilers — and I, too, want to 
travel. I don’t expect that her presence will inter- 
fere with me much: personally, you know, I never 
let any one, or anything, do that.” 

“But I imagined Mrs. d’Esterre — ” 

“My dear George, I really did think of that quite 
seriously,” answered Finch in his gentle, even voice. 
“ But the fact of the matter is, Rita d’Esterre knows 
nothing about me and suspects a good deal — that ’s 
why she was attracted. Lilian Fane, on the con- 
trary, knows a great deal and suspects nothing — is 
not sufficiently interested. It makes life much safer 
and simpler. I could n’t endure a woman with an 
imagination.” 

“And yet you yourself have imagination: the soul 
of an artist, an unerring eye for beauty.” It was 
Parrifleet who spoke. 

“ Miss Fane ’s in drawing : her colouring ’s not up to 
332 


FINCH FORSAKES THE CLUB 


much ; but then it might put my eye out for my work 
if it was. She’ll be like a plain, neutral-tinted wall- 
paper in a room; quite a good background for my 
imaginative works. And somehow, Parrifleet, all 
my imagination goes into paint: I don’t imagine 
things about people.” 

“ Mr. Finch, don’t do it.” Parrifleet rose from his 
chair, moved forward on the hearthrug, and spoke 
with an emphatic gesture of his hands. “ You don’t 
love her.” 

“ She’d be the last person I ’d marry if I did,” re- 
plied Finch, coolly lighting a cigarette as he spoke. 

“Well, if you don’t love her, you’ll hate her: one 
can’t be indifferent over such things. And think what 
it will mean: your whole life out of harmony, for 
want of that divine touch upon the strings. Besides 
that, think of the injury that you will be doing her. 
To take a woman with no love — no reverence for 
her in your heart — it’s criminal.” Parrifleet spoke 
with almost desperate earnestness. 

“ Look here, Parry, you ’re judging others by your- 
self, which is always a hopeless sort of thing to do. 
If you married you ’d marry for one reason : Simpson 
for another: Banks for another!” 

“ By God ! if I do marry — if I do, I say — I ’ll marry 
for Parrifleet’s reason: because I think a gel’s a jolly 
fine gel an’ all that — eh, what?” ejaculated Banks. 

“ But still the reason would be different from Par- 
rifleet’s because the girl would be different. The 
mistake you make is in judging Lilian by the sort of 
333 


SIMPSON 


girl that you ’d like your girl to be. Now Miss Fane 
would be bored to tears by the kind of love you’d 
give her. She wants to be able to do as she likes and 
live without her aunt, and go in to dinner before 
a few other women: she does n’t want love, and I 
don’t blame her. Love’s like drink. Some people 
have a taste for it — like to sip here, sip there, same 
as Banks” — here he hurled a cushion at the wide 
expanse of white shirt-front which gleamed from the 
recesses of a deep chair; — “others prefer a great 
and glorious burst-up — a debauch of love. I ’m 
like that myself. But I don’t want to be drunk 
every day — I don’t want love served up at break- 
fast, dinner, and lunch. That ’s what it becomes, or 
is supposed to become, when allied to matrimony : a 
little drop given in everything — like the way you 
cure drunkards with brandy. 

“Then, again, some people have no taste for it at 
all: are natural teetotallers. Lilian Fane'’s one of 
these. Her heart ’s nice and shiny and hard like her 
nails, probably been manicured : her soul ’s dressed 
by Lucille, in white illusion run through with 
entre-deux and pink ribbons. As for warm blood: 
she’s like one of those glass jars you see in the 
chemist’s windows, which appear to be filled with a 
nice, rich, ruby-tinted liquor — and only hold plain 
water. It is n’t her fault ; it ’s nobody ’s fault ; it ’s the 
way she’s made.” 

“Agar, you ’re talking like a cad,” remarked Simp- 
son quietly. 


334 


FINCH FORSAKES THE CLUB 


“You wrong me, George,” answered Finch 
calmly, seating himself, crossing one leg over the 
other, and caressing his neat, silk-clad ankle with 
pride. “You say that because you think I’m dis- 
paraging the lady who is about to honour me by 
becoming my wife. As a matter of fact, the qualities 
I mention are just the very ones I want: the sort of 
qualities which will prevent her ever becoming a 
nuisance to me or any one else. For really it’s the 
good people, the people with feelings, who are such 
a damnable bore in the world. After all — on 
second thoughts — it ’s you who disparage her by 
taking it for granted that the qualities you think she 
ought to have, and not those she has, are the ones 
that make for perfection.” 

“You’ll not be happy, Agar, put it off — wait a 
little,” urged Simpson, as anxious and worried as 
though it were his own future at stake. 

“Look here, George, marriage is n’t going to be my 
life. It may be the background, as I said. It’ll cer- 
tainly be nothing more. Art’s my life: to be able to 
paint what I like and how I like : to be able to travel : 
to see the best the world can offer.” Finch leant for- 
ward with his hands between his knees, his colourless 
face aglow, his light eyes dilated till they appeared 
all pupils. “To be able to paint without fear or 
anxiety at the back of me. To be able to do my 
best in my own way, and take my own time over it. 
Human beings simply don’t exist in comparison with 
my work. Let me tell you this: no grief in the world 
335 


SIMPSON 


could wring my soul to such an ecstasy of pain as a 
great work of art: I don’t pay it the tribute of joy 
or admiration, but of pain. Some one has said, — 
‘ Great art is that before which we wish to die.’ Well, 
that’s how I feel. Love! Why this little tin-pot heart 
and soul of mine is wrung with love when I think of 
Michael Angelo — Titian, Raphael — the eternal 
wonder of their work. And that ’s the sort of feeling 
you expect me to squander on a woman — a woman 
with her irksomeness, her petty exactions, her mu- 
tability: a skin that sags, eyes that dim. By God, 
George ! if I was to love women in the way you want 
me to, I ’d never paint again. My whole soul would 
hang aghast upon every wrinkle — I’d commit 
suicide over the first grey hair.” 

“There’s the mind,” said Parrifleet. 

“And what is the mind of a woman? A quick- 
sand : a state of eternal vacillation — oscillation, 
shuffling, shifting; versatile — with an appalling spe- 
cies of cleverness. No — no! Look here, let me tell 
you fellows this. In matrimony you get one of two 
things; an angel on the hearth, or a skeleton in the 
cupboard : and the less you care the less it matters. 
It may be a hell, or it may be a parlour penance. Or 
it may be — as I said — merely the wall-paper to 
one’s life; and that’s jolly well the safest thing it 
can be!” 

“ I believe you ’re right — right for you.” Parri- 
fleet spoke thoughtfully. “I was looking in the 
crystal to-day — thinking of you — and saw a 
336 


FINCH FORSAKES THE CLUB 


fluted pillar, infinitely high, and a clear blue sky: 
no wavering lights or shadows, no single human face. 
How different from the cloudy, rainbow-shot vision 
I encountered when I sought for Mr. Desmond’s 
future.” The little man sighed. 

“And which do you think the best? ” Finch spoke 
almost defiantly; for, curiously enough, with Parri- 
fleet — alone of all his world — did he feel any de- 
sire to justify or defend himself. 

“I think your way will be smoother, but still I 
think his was the better. Though not the best.” 

“Well, what is the best?” 

“When self ceases to count.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


OF A FASHIONABLE WEDDING AND A TRUE 
MARRIAGE 

Finch was married early in the new year : Julie, home 
with her husband on a flying visit from Siberia, being 
among the guests. “Not because I’m myself,” she 
declared, “but because I’m Van’s wife; because 
Van’s father ’s bogged in money ; and some day I may 
be worth knowing. Everything about this wedding 
has a reason.” 

She was talking to Simpson — who had officiated 
as best man — in the dining-room of Miss Fane’s 
house, where refreshments were served after the 
wedding ; or rather where an array of dainties — as 
inaccessible as a mirage in the desert — gleamed from 
between the shoulders and hats of a dense and over- 
dressed crowd. 

“No, I don’t want champagne — who w r ants 
champagne at three o’clock in the afternoon ! I ’m 
dying for a cup of tea — panting with thirst. If you 
could see my tongue you ’d realise that it ’s blackened. 
I ’d put it out and show you if the bride’s eye was n’t 
full upon me. She’s every bit as cool and metallic 
as Mrs. Finch of an hour, as she was as Miss Fane 
of thirty-odd summers — or winters; somehow it 
333 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


seems more natural to reckon some people’s ages 
by winters. She knows to a T what every one has 
on; and whether it’s this spring’s fashion, or last 
autumn’s done up ; that I ’m burnt and weather- 
beaten as a Red Indian: and that the skin on my 
nose hasn’t even started to grow -again. That’s 
because it got nipped with the frost, and Van per- 
sisted in rubbing it with snow. Why, oh, why did 
he do it?” If it were possible to wail in a whisper 
young Mrs. Van Rennen wailed — “I don’t mean 
Van and my nose, but Mr. Finch!” 

“The Lord only knows,” responded Simpson 
gloomily. “It’s no good trying to get anything to 
eat or drink here, I suppose.” 

“ I wonder if the catering people make a reduction 
when you tell them you mean to have so many guests 
that they won’t be able to reach the food ; so that the 
whole caboodle can be moved on to the next funeral,” 
interjected Julie morosely. 

“We’ll go and have a cosy tea when it’s all over. 
She ’ll be going to change her dress now ; and they ’re 
bound to catch the four- thirty from Euston. Mean- 
while let us find some quiet place where we can hear 
our own voices.” 

After some search they found — not exactly a 
cosy place, but a cubby-hole on a landing, a box 
room thinly disguised by draperies, and sat down 
with a sigh of relief. But now that they were in 
peace they did not seem inclined to talk. Simpson 
was infinitely depressed. The whole affair seemed 
339 


SIMPSON 


miserably pinchbeck. As for the peaceful life Finch 
promised himself, Lilian had that sort of jealousy 
which is compatible with a complete want of heart. 
She would never be really jealous of her husband; 
but she could be, and already was, intensely jealous 
for herself. True, Finch did not deserve much : had 
given little. But still, in his nonchalant fashion, he 
was sufficiently honourable to stick to his bargain 
of utter barrenness, however unbearable it might 
become; and suffer accordingly, from a long-drawn- 
out series of petty exactions and continuous nerve- 
strain worse than any tragedy. 

“ I never saw such a dismal wedding,” sighed Julie, 
breaking a long silence. “And yet, oddly enough, it 
is the first wedding that I have n’t felt the least 
inclined to cry at. Somehow it didn’t seem real; 
more like a thing on the stage, with all the actors 
painfully bored.” 

“Look here, don’t let’s talk about it. Tell me of 
your life in Siberia with Van Rennen; and how you 
live and what you do with yourself.” 

“Do with myself! Work, my good man, work”! 
Julie leant back; arranged the skirt of her white 
cloth gown, then raised it a little to show a very neat 
foot in a black silk stocking and low patent leather 
shoe, which she gazed at with satisfaction. “ If you 
only knew the delight of being decently dressed 
once more; after months of an old Norfolk jacket, 
and skirt to my knees, high boots, an astrachan coat 
on the top of it all, and a fur cap with flaps tied down 
340 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


over my ears. Not that I ’d like to be always rigged 
up in this sort of gear; it runs away with too much 
time. A man took as long to do my hair to-day as I 
take to get our breakfast, and eat it, and wash up the 
dishes. But I like Van to see that I can look decent 
for once, and I ’m cultivating a haughty air. Do you 
notice that? It’s wonderful what self-confidence a 
well-fitting frock gives one — as good as true religion 
or a balance at the bank. I do look nice, don’t I?” 
She turned to him with an engaging air of candour. 

“Very nice, though I expect Van Rennen thinks 
you look just as nice in your workaday rig. But 
what ’s that you call him?” 

“Well, don’t you think Archie’s rather an awful 
name — almost as bad as Bertie — beautiful, boun- 
tiful Bertie — or Algy? It’s all very well for a man 
about town in a frock coat: but for a miner in greasy 
overalls and a dilapidated fur cap, with a week’s 
growth of beard on his chin, it’s too incongruous. 
So I started calling him by his surname — like the 
workingmen’s wives call their husbands; but now 
it’s slipped into ‘ Van, ’ and he calls me ‘Sal,’ or ‘old 
girl.’ If ever I have a son I ’m going to christen him 
Bill — just plain Bill; nothing else at all.” 

For a moment she hesitated, then added, very 
softly, — 

“Early in the summer, I think, Simmy.” 

Simpson flushed crimson: but Julie’s dewy bloom 
remained unchanged, though her eyes grew soft. 

“Are you going back?” 

34i 


SIMPSON 


“Yes, the first week in April. And I’m going to 
stay out there, and live out in the open — live hard 
and work hard. Simmy, you can’t imagine what it ’s 
like out there! I could n’t sleep when first I came 
home — what a difference there is between . sound 
and noise. Here in London it seemed all noise and I 
missed the sound of the running water. The Ker- 
kerod stream is only a stone’s throw from our hut, 
you know; and the Belokoi half a mile farther off — 
there is a continual duet between the two : I love it ! 
I ’d love my child to be born within the sound of it ; it 
goes deeper than any music. Then, seven versts off, 
is the river Chikoi; sometimes at flood-time, when 
the wind sets our way, we can hear it booming. And 
through it all is the swishing whisper or wild whoop 
of the wind through the pines. Van says it ’s awfully 
hot in the summer, though there’s always a breeze 
— and the gnats are awful. But in the winter it’s 
cold — and bites into one and makes one all alive. 
We have an open fireplace in the hut, with great 
logs. It smokes abominably; but it’s only wood 
smoke and it smells good. And we’ve a little kero- 
sene stove for cooking on; and, oddly enough, elec- 
tric light from the mine. We ’re going to take out an 
electric cooking- plant, for the kerosene stinks beyond 
all words, and my hands always smell of it, and Van 
says the very eggs taste of it.” 

“How high up are you?” 

“Four thousand eight hundred feet, right up 
among the mountains. The nearest real shops are at 
342 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


Petrowski Zavod; but there’s a sort of little store 
near us, just for the mine. The whole thing’s our own 
world. There ’re the engineers and the accountant 
and the assay er, and all sorts of hangers-on. Kirk- 
land — you know he ’s still out there — bosses the 
whole affair, and we do all the odd jobs. As a matter 
of fact” — her voice dropped confidentially — “I 
believe Van does far more than Kirkland, and the 
men simply love him. It 's such fun ; he doctors them 
when they’re ill. A short while back he pulled out a 
tooth for a man, a great raw-boned Slav. It was at 
night ; I held the candle ; and what do you think that 
fellow did? — offered me the tooth as a sign of grati- 
tude. I like the people. I ’m always trying to talk to 
them, plunge headlong into Russian; but I don’t 
know T much, make frightful blunders. It’s difficult, 
too, for they ’re such a mixed crew T — the boy who 
chops my wood speaks three languages. There are 
Tartars, and Mongols, and Chukchis and Koryaks, 
Kalmucks, and Kamchadales.” Julie rolled out the 
words with pride, and some music; for the sound 
of the running water and wind among the pines 
seemed to have got into her voice, which had lost 
its shrill girlish note. 

“Are there any people of your own sort?” 

“No English. The assayer’s a German and one 
of the engineers is a Dane, and the electrician an 
Italian. They’d all go through fire and water for 
Van ; think no end of him. Do you know what we ’ve 
really come home for? It’s a secret, but he said that 
343 


SIMPSON 


of course you were to be told. He and the engineer 
have been experimenting over a new machine for 
wet crushing ; there ’s altogether too much gold dust 
lost in the present method. He ’s got a little model — 
the darlingest thing! I believe he’ll make a great 
success of it.” The young wife’s voice was deep with 
pride. 

“Well done, Julie!” 

“Why, well done?” 

“Because it’s your doing; he’d never have found 
himself if it had n’t been for you. ” 

“Wouldn’t he, though?” She spoke almost 
indignantly. “He’s got the grit — it was bound to 
come out: he’s like Sir Abel in that; though he 
favours his mother — as the cottage people say — 
in everything else. Do you know she actually wants 
to come out and stay with us; isn’t it sporting? 
Van says he ’s going to put up another room. We ’ve 
only got one now — I wonder what the new Mrs. 
Finch would say to our ‘desirable villa residence’! 
Van’s clothes always hung up to dry among the 
pots and pans : two bunks, one above the other, piled 
with furs, a bit of looking-glass as big as the palm of 
my hand; no frills to life.” 

“Except happiness,” put in Simpson softly. 

“Oh, that ’s the woof and warp of the whole shoot- 
ing match. We’re so happy, Simmy, it sometimes 
frightens me : particularly when the poor old Baron 
is there, with his desperate sadness ; and I remember 
that he was young once — and happy like we are.” 

344 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


“Who’s the Baron? It sounds melodramatic.” 

“Why, the man who owned the whole place, who 
first found the gold. It’s too heart-breaking ! — Death 
may be dreadful, but sometimes life seems far worse. 
We pester Providence to be preserved from sudden 
death; and then, as a grim sort of joke, are given old 
age and loneliness instead. I’ll never pray to be 
delivered from anything! He lives on there, though 
at last he ’s got money enough to go away, simply 
because he can’t bear to leave it. He has an old 
place, something between a fortress and a castle. He 
could n’t sell that because nobody would ever buy 
it ; he had to sell the mine, and never got enough to 
work it until he parted with it. Is n’t it an irony of 
fate?” 

Julie’s words tumbled out in the old incoherent 
rush: her face was flushed, her eyes moist with feel- 
ing. “Now he’s rich, for his requirements, and he 
can’t think of anything he wants to do. Just lives on 
there with an old man and his wife to care for him : 
in a place that would take an army of servants and 
dozens of fires to keep habitable. It’s been in his 
family for centuries: perched up on a crag of the 
mountain. And from there he can look right down 
upon the mines, and see the gold that would have 
saved him and his wife, turned out day after day — 
why, even from the first of January till we left, the 
twenty-fifth of March, they got close on twelve 
thousand ounces — think of that! Something just 
under fifty thousand pounds. Do you know his his- 
345 


SIMPSON 


tory, — how it all started? His grandfather was a 
spendthrift, something at the Czar’s Court. They 
say he always drove four horses, with four out- riders; 
that he had a jewelled ring and a mistress and a dif- 
ferent set of furs for every day in the year. Then the 
Baron’s father thought he ’d retrench ; and broke his 
heart after two years, trying to pay the old man’s 
debts. When the Baron succeeded, there was nothing 
left but that rat-haunted place. 

“ He had been living a gay life in St. Petersburg 
— there is a pastel of him hung up in that barn of 
his, such a ripping thing, such a gallant boy! He 
was engaged to a Court beauty and tried to break 
it off; but she would n’t give him up. They must 
have loved each other frightfully; his eyes glow 
even now when he speaks of her. So he gave in, 
already dreaming over the gold which he felt cer- 
tain was there, and they married — the poor dar- 
lings ! — He has a miniature of her, the loveliest 
patrician creature ! — And he took her off to that 
great empty house among the mountains, for every- 
thing had been sold that was worth selling long be- 
fore that. I dare say they laughed over it and loved 
each other all the better for roughing it together, 
like Van and I. 

“But it went on and on. They sent away one 
servant after another, even her own maid. They 
were always looking for gold; she was out with 
him in all weathers — people used to see them at 
the edge of the creek. Sometimes she was on her 
346 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


knees, in the mud, washing for it with a flat pan. 
They say she got thinner and thinner and was 
always coughing. But she would n’t give up: they 
thought she went mad over it: that it got on her 
brain : that she could think of, care for, nothing else 

— even the Baron. She used to go about with her 
beautiful hair all hanging about her face — she had 
never even done it for herself before she married — 
get up in the night, seized by some fancy or dream 
that she knew where the gold was, and go for it by 
starlight, though she could never have seen it if it 
had been there. Then at last she was so ill she 
could n’t get up or go out any more: though even in 
bed her hands would keep moving as if she was shak- 
ing the pan. And somehow the Baron got the doctor 
up from Petrowski Zavod, who said that she must 
be taken away at once to some warmer place, fresh 
surroundings. But by the time he was paid there 
was n’t enough money left. Besides she could n’t 
have stood the journey. Every time the Baron comes 
to see me he tells me the same story — I ’ve some 
sewing that is stitched through and through with it 

— and I say the same thing to try and comfort him ; 
that she could n’t have stood the journey, for she 
died only a week later! 

“And for twenty years after that — think of it, 
Simmy! — he went on, for his people’s sake, never 
doubting the gold would be found. Then at last, 
when he did find it, it was n’t placer gold, as he had 
hoped — mixed with loose sand and gravel and easy 
347 


SIMPSON 


to work — but quartz gold ; all among slate and rock 
and frightfully expensive to deal with. He did get 
started. Do you remember Kirkland telling us of it 
under the chestnut tree at Fountains? — What ages 
ago it seems! What a misty sort of dream Siberia 
was then, and now it’s my home. But though the 
peasants loved him so that they started working for 
nothing, it could n’t go on: he felt it was n’t fair to 
them and it made him miserable. So he sold it all. 
And there we are, young and happy, in his place. It 
gets on my conscience, though the Lord knows it 
is n’t my fault. I feel we have no right to it; not 
only the place but the luck. For there is n’t a single 
cloud anywhere. It frightens me sometimes. I tell 
Van I wish he ’d pretend to beat me — anything, so 
that we might n’t appear to be so blatantly happy 
and prosperous. Oh, there is Van. Look! doesn’t 
he look a dear ! He ’s got ever so much broader — 
has n’t he?” 

Julie had risen to her feet, and now craned over 
the banister, waving an urgent hand to her hus- 
band. 

“ I was just telling Simmy” — she went on as he 
joined them — “ about the Baron, and what a swine 
I feel about it all : suggesting that you should pretend 
to starve me, beat me — anything.” 

Van Rennen grinned: — “As if any one ’ud be- 
lieve it! They all know the boot’s on the other foot. 
If you ’d only seen the things I was expected to eat, 
first go off, Simpson.” 


348 


A FASHIONABLE WEDDING 


“Oh, well, you Ve thrived on it. Your looks don’t 
pity you, as the village people say. What’s happen- 
ing down there?” 

“Why, the whole thing ’s over. They ’ll be sweep- 
ing us out if we stay much longer. The happy 
couple have gone. I can tell you that there was 
a great hunt for you, Simpson: all sorts of things 
that it was the best man’s business to do; and you 
not there to do them.” 

“Oh, I say, I am sorry! I hope Finch wasn’t 
put out.” 

“Could anything put Finch out? He went off, as 
blandly indifferent to every one and everything as 
though it had been some total stranger’s wedding. 
The only fear is that he ’ll forget his new acquisition 
and leave her behind at some station or other, or in 
the cab.” 

“She won’t be left — she’s not that sort,” inter- 
jected Julie scornfully. “Look here, I tell you what 
I ’m going to do. You two can take the motor and go 
to your Club, and have tea and a talk and all those 
sort of things that men can’t live without.” 

“ But that ’s what we ’re to do ! ” objected her hus- 
band. “Do you hear her — eh, Simpson? Do you 
hear the way she bosses me? As if even a heathen 
Chinee would be imposed on — beat her , indeed!” 

“Shut up — it’s part of my general modesty to 
leave myself to the last. I’m going to take a taxi 
and go down and have tea with Dorothy. I may be 
back to dinner — and then again I mayn’t; it all 
349 


SIMPSON 

depends on whether I can get her to come out with 
me or not.” 

“ There speaks a modem wife!” 

“Yes, and thank your stars you’ve got her. I 
wonder what you ’d have done with an Early Victo- 
rian piece of sentimentality clinging ivy-like to your 
arm. 

“Ivy does n’t cling to arms,” objected Van Ren- 
nen. “ Ivy — ” But Julie was already at the bottom 
of the stairs, shaking hands in the most languid and 
approved fashion with Mrs. Cubitt, who — now that 
her niece was gone — had somehow, like a forlorn 
wisp of flotsam, drifted into public view. 


PART III 


















CHAPTER XXXI 


LYDIA STRANG TAKES HER FATE INTO HER OWN 
HANDS ONCE MORE 

Early in May, Banks was laid up with a bad attack 
of gout: curiously enough, for he had eaten and 
drunken less the last few months than ever before, 
since he left school. This was partly owing to Parri- 
fleet’s influence, and partly to the sting of Lydia’s 
words: the sudden realisation of himself that they 
had brought with them. Formerly he had seen him- 
self in the glass through the proud eyes of his tailor: 
all at once it seemed that the ugly flesh became evi- 
dent beneath the immaculately cut clothes. 

Parrifleet, gently satirical at the expense of the 
fanatics of his own faith, told the story of a famous 
occultist who had publicly refused to eat green peas 
at a dinner party — “Because the entity of the 
green peas is antagonistic to my own entity,” being 
the reason that he gave. 

It was easy to pass the peas. It is not easy to pass 
one’s self : and the entity of Banks’s body began to 
be at odds with his budding soul — which Finch pic- 
tured treading the golden floors of heaven in white 
spats. He had always eaten and drunken, not be- 
cause he was hungry or thirsty, not even because he 
353 


SIMPSON 


was tempted ; but because the food was there, and he 
was all over it without waiting to ask “why?” He 
would have gobbled up Lydia Strang in the same 
fashion had she not defied him: surprising him by 
her action as thoroughly as though an oyster had 
suddenly sat up on his plate and insisted on its own 
right to an individual life. 

Now he had reformed. But, as so often happens, 
his pleasant vices swung round with a sting in their 
tails and caught him as they went. 

The worst was over, or so the whole household de- 
voutly hoped, and he was out in a long chair on the 
terrace — grumbling at the spring sun, which was too 
hot, and the spring winds, which were too cold — 
when Strang and his younger sister happened to 
call. 

Simpson — divided between a benevolent wish not 
to leave Banks too much alone and an overwhelming 
desire to get away from his eternal egotism — was at 
the end of a long afternoon spent writing letters in 
the library, when Jervis announced them: — “Mr. 
and Miss Strang”: adding: — 

“ I ’ve shown them into the morning room, sir, and 
please, sir, shall I serve tea?” 

“Yes; and where’s Mr. Finch?” 

“ Mr. Finch is down in the walled garden sketching, 
sir. Mrs. Finch has gone out in Mr. Banks’s motor, 
and said she would n’t be back till late,” replied the 
man. 

For Lilian was staying there with her husband; a 
354 


LYDIA STRANG BRAVES HER FATE 


fact which they none of them could ever remember. 
They were surprised when she came in to breakfast : 
went in to dinner without her; completely forgot her 
in making up their plans for the day : that is, unless 
Jervis reminded them; which he seemed to take an 
almost malevolent pleasure in doing. 

At first Simpson wondered if Finch also forgot, and 
came to the conclusion that he did n’t, though he 
tried to: the fact that the sound of his wife’s foot- 
steps, the rustle of her skirt, set him twitching with 
irritation, even before the others heard her, being 
sufficient indication of where his thought lay. Still, 
he never spoke to Simpson of his married life ; and 
was magnificently polite to Lilian when she was pres- 
ent. Indeed, the petty pretence of forgetting her 
existence was the only outlet that he allowed him- 
self. Though sometimes, when her chatter became 
intolerable, fretting like a file on his overstrained 
nerves, he would get up and slip quietly from the 
room. 

Asa matter of fact she obsessed him : came between 
him and his work ; ruined what he had given his life 
to perfect. He had imagined that the fact of there 
being no love in his marriage would leave him free. 
He was as free as a man in the Desert of Sahara: 
with his mouth full of sand — Lilian’s petty exac- 
tions : shrivelled up by the scorching wind of her utter 
selfishness. No love in the world could have de- 
manded more than she did, in return for the partial 
use of her three or four thousand a year. 

355 


SIMPSON 


A night or two before he had spoken to Simpson, 
with unusual feeling, of the effect of dislike. Some 
one else had started the subject, apropos of nothing 
in particular, but his words held a bitter personal 
note. 

“ Hate may be almost ennobling: may lead to love 
or death; to the summit of one’s ambition, to almost 
any great thing. But dislike is like a slow cancer, 
which poisons and never quite kills. Like the accu- 
mulation of port wine in your system, Banks,” he 
went on, laughing; as he realised that the others were 
listening. “ Another hogshead or two and something 
exciting might happen; but you’ve stopped at the 
wrong moment: and all your molecules, or what- 
ever you call them, have got the staggers in con- 
sequence.” 

The afternoon that the Strangs called, he entered 
the morning room just after Simpson; and sat chat- 
ting to Lydia, while he poured out tea with that deli- 
cate, neat-fingered air which once made Kirkland 
describe him as the most “ladylike man” he ever 
met. 

Simpson — wondering what to say and how to 
keep clear of the past, and Merwin, who seemed to be 
regarded as even more disgraceful than most dead 
people — talked to Strang, who after a few words of 
agonised remorse and sorrow had once more re- 
lapsed into the complete lawyer, immersed in that 
petty daily round where litigation takes the place of 
religion ; while with one ear he listened to Finch, who, 
356 


LYDIA STRANG BRAVES HER FATE 


for some reason or other, was in one of his most 
whimsical moods. 

He began with the village and the people ; went on 
to the Club and its members, giving the latest news 
of Julie and Van Rennen ; sheared off to Town gossip ; 
and finally reached fashions, exemplifying his belief 
that everybody liked being talked to about things 
of which they knew nothing: though in this respect 
Lydia had certainly improved. 

“It's an age of line, you know, — even the hats 
must be completely at one with the nape of the 
neck: the Church is the only thing that’s expected 
to be broad nowadays,” he declared. “A little more 
cream, a very little: a mere suspicion; I don’t offer 
you more because I want it myself. People talk 
about the milk of human kindness ; but it ’s nowhere 
in its humanising effects with the cream of Simp- 
son’s Alderneys. If there’s any one thing for which 
I have to thank Providence, it is that I’m thin 
enough to drink cream at every meal. Poor old 
Banks, now, was clearly designed for skim milk.” 

"Mr. Banks has n’t been here for some time.” 

“He’s here now making all our lives a burden by 
reason of his great toe — the left toe, too!” 

“ How do you mean? What is it?” Miss Strang’s 
simple face bore a look of complete bewilderment, 
though Finch observed that she flushed, and he 
chuckled. 

“Suppressed gout: or so the doctor says. But I 
believe he ’s mistaken ; they get into the way of tabu- 
357 


SIMPSON 


lating things like that; and Banks looks a gouty 
subject, I allow. But all the same I think he’s mis- 
taken. I don’t believe it ’s gout at all. I believe ” — 
his voice dropped to a whisper — “ that it ’s feelings ! 
— suppressed feelings. I ’ve sometimes thought that 
we none of us quite understand poor Banks!” And 
he sighed. 

“Is he laid up — is he in — ” Lydia hesitated: she 
had her brave moments, but for all that she lacked 
the courage to mention the word “ bed ” before three 
men. 

“ No, he ’s not in — oh, no, not at all ; by no means,” 
answered Finch. “ He’s out on the terrace. By the 
way, Simpson, has Banks had any tea yet?” 

“Not yet: just touch the bell, will you, and Jervis 
will take it to him.” 

“There’s an extra cup here. Jervis must have 
thought we ’d take it. I put in five spoonfuls and one 
for the pot.” He spoke with apparent irrelevance; 
the silver teapot poised above the empty cup. But 
at the last word he turned a glance of mocking chal- 
lenge full upon Lydia Strang. “Poor old Banks,” he 
added : “ it seems a shame to leave him to the servants 
like that: ill and all!” Here he quirked one little 
finger elegantly, raised the pot yet higher, and began 
to pour out the tea. 

Lydia flushed crimson. She knew she was being 
dared. And a sudden determination took her that 
she would not be laughed out of doing what she 
wanted to do. 


358 


LYDIA STRANG BRAVES HER FATE 


“I'll take it. I’d like to take it. Is he in the front? 
Does he take cream and sugar — Oh ! and cakes, and 
bread and butter.” 

She spoke quickly, decisively, though with such 
nervousness that the words tumbled out one over 
the other. 

“Oh, but we could n’t think of allowing you, Miss 
Strang,” began Simpson. Then, struck by a sudden 
thought, he paused; while Strang, sitting in a low 
chair, stared up at his sister curiously. 

“ Oh, I ’d like to take it. It ’s very hot in here ; I ’d 
like a little air — the garden — ” 

She had heaped a plate with food ; and now, pick- 
ing up the cup which Finch had filled, was moving 
towards the door when Simpson interposed. 

“At least, let me carry the cup as far as the side 
door,” he said; took it from her shaking hand, pre- 
ceded her through the dining-room and across the 
hall; then stopped in the porch; indicated Banks’s 
broad back; and gravely poured the tea, which had 
been slopped in the saucer, back into the cup. 

“I’m afraid it will be cold,” ventured Lydia. 

“I’m sure it will be sweet,” responded Simpson 
gallantly; and handed it to her with twinkling eyes, 
and that formal, old-fashioned bow in which Julie 
so delighted. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


BANKS IS ACCEPTED WITH MODERATE ENTHUSIASM 

As Banks heard the rattle of the cup, he threw a 
back-handed growl over his shoulder. “At last. 
What the devil — ” 

Lydia stiffened and flushed : not altogether with 
horror, rather with the pleasant feeling that here was 
the one person she could dare to do battle with. 

“ I wonder that they ’ll do anything for you if you 
speak like that,” she remarked severely; and moved 
forward towards the front of the long chair. 

Banks started and stared: — “Miss Strang! This 
is good of you ! I had no idea. I thought it was one 
of those fools of servants.” 

“I don’t think servants are fools. Mary’s not: 
I sometimes wish she was.” Lydia laughed as she 
set her load down on the grass. 

“I must push up your cushions a little, or you 
won’t be able to drink,” she said. And with a feeling 
of tremendous daring she settled them so that Banks, 
whose spine seemed strangely affected by the one 
swathed foot, could sit upright; then handed him the 
cup of lukewarm tea, folded a piece of bread and 
butter and laid it on the saucer: “ I’ll hold the plate 
while you eat that.” 


360 


BANKS IS ACCEPTED 


“But you can’t stand; I can’t have you standing. 
Galling to be so helpless — eh, what? But won’t you 
sit down on the end of my chair? Look” — and he 
actually moved a trifle — “there’s plenty of room.” 

Lydia seated herself gingerly. “What will you say 
if I shake your foot. Gentlemen are terribly ill- 
tempered when they have gout; or so I’ve heard.” 

Banks liked the way she said “ gentlemen.” All the 
women he knew spoke of “ men.” Even in her daring 
she was refined ; reminding him of the Chelsea china 
in her old-fashioned primness. “And if you swear 
again I’ll go away and leave you,” she added with 
spirit. 

“ I won’t swear again: why should I — with you 
here?” he asked fatuously. 

“Well, drink your tea and don’t talk.” 

Banks obeyed; while she watched him, quite ob- 
livious of what he would have said had Jervis 
brought him his tea in such a fashion, instead of on a 
tray, with a teapot and cream jug of his own, and 
plenty of hot buttered cakes. 

“Some more?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Then I’ll take the things back to the house,” 
remarked Lydia; and was rising, with decision, when 
Banks caught at her hand. 

“No, don’t go. Look here, I — ” 

“You’ll upset that cup in a minute.” She took it 
from him and put it under the chair along with the 
plate of disregarded cakes. Banks was excited, al- 
361 


SIMPSON 


most trembling; it was delightful to feel her power. 
She had once been very nasty to him. She deter- 
mined that she would sometimes be nasty to other 
people, too: it gave her a feeling of self-reliance 
and courage, which she had never gained by merely 
giving in. 

“Look here, why did you bring out my tea? — it 
was awfully good of you, and all that. But why did 
you?” 

“I’m used to going to see people when they’re 
ill. I would n’t sit up quite so much if I was you, 
Mr. Banins: they say that gout sometimes affects the 
heart.” 

“ It ’s not the gout that affects my heart,” declared 
Banks solemnly. “ It ’s you.” 

“Oh, I’m quite safe,” answered Lydia; and 
laughed in a heady sort of way that would have 
amazed her mother. She was again in grey, that 
colour which can effect so much or so little. But this 
time her dress fitted : while her black hat was shady, 
softening her face, and there was a touch of blue in it, 
which brought out the colour in her eyes : much as her 
one love affair had brought out her character, with its 
wholesome streak of vanity. “I’m not nearly as 
dangerous as gout,” she added and laughed again. 

“ ’Pon my soul, I believe you ’ve hurt me more — 
oh, damn!” 

“What is it?” Lydia rose with a glance of exag- 
gerated anxiety. 

“Nothing; only you touched my foot.” Banks 
362 


BANKS IS ACCEPTED 


drew in his breath sharply : for a moment the pain 
was intolerable. Then he caught an odd look on 
Lydia’s face. “You did it on purpose.” 

“Oh, no.” 

“ I know you did it on purpose. Well, you ’re right; 
it did hurt — devilishly ! But I still maintain that 
it ’s not half so hard to bear as your scorn was — 
that day, do you remember — eh, what?” 

“ It was very good for you.” 

“ I know it was good for me. I Ve realised that all 
the time. But, by Jove, I’ve realised it more since 
I ’ve lain here, ill and alone, week after week.” — It 
was exactly five days since the first twinge; and he 
had kept Simpson and Parrifleet and Mrs. Bliss and 
Jervis and a doctor in constant attendance: but 
lovers are licensed liars. — “I’ve realised what a 
cad, what a brute I was! — All that I’ve lost.” 

“If I’d known I ’d have come. If I ’d known you 
were ill, I mean.” 

“You would — honest — eh, what? Well, I ’m 
not well yet by a long chalk — weeks, months, the 
doctor says. Got to get it out of the system and all 
that, you know. Baden-Baden, so he says — banish- 
ment, that’s what I call it.” 

“Where exactly is Baden-Baden?” 

“Somewhere in Germany,” answered Banks 
loosely. “Warm baths, mineral springs, — all that. 
Gale went there: did n’t do him any good — poor 
chap ’s dying, so they say. But I suppose if one has 
a doctor one must do as he says — eh, what?” 

363 


SIMPSON 


“You can’t go alone: you’re not fit.” 

The invalid sighed stupendously, and gazed up into 
her face; but for once he had the sense to hold his 
tongue. For a moment or so there was silence, then 
Lydia spoke. 

“Tell me, why did you ask me to marry you last 
autumn?” she asked, with a feeling of delicious 
calmness and exaltation. 

“Because I wanted a wife.” 

“Any wife?” 

“That’s not fair. I — you know, I — ” Banks 
squirmed; then with an effort of honesty met her 
eyes fully. “Yes, any wife — there!” 

Lydia stooped with a decisive jerk and picked up 
the cup and plate. “Then you ’d better get any wife 
to marry you and go out to Baden with you. You ’re 
no more fit to go about the Continent alone than a 
babe unborn : with gout and all. There ’s no knowing 
what it will go to, with the food they ’ll give you in 
those places. I used to have a respect for foreign 
cooking ; but I ’ve been studying it a bit lately — and 
it’s not fit for any but heathens.” 

“Why did you study it? — Foreign cooking, of 
all things — eh, what?” 

“Everything comes in useful some time or other. 
I ’d better send some one to fetch you in : all the sun ’s 
gone off you now.” She moved a step away: then 
turned. “And you think over what I’ve said and 
get hold of that ‘ any wife ’ of yours — if she ’ll have 
you.” 

364 


BANKS IS ACCEPTED 


“ Lydia ! ” Banks caught hold of her arm, while the 
cakes and bread and butter slid from the plate onto 
his knees. But he did not notice that: neither did 
Lydia notice — as he pulled her down onto the edge 
of his chair — that she sat on one ; luckily only an 
innocuous sponge: though woman-like she retained 
more presence of mind than he did, and lowered the 
cup and saucer onto the turf, out of harm’s way. 
“Lydia, it was different then! I wanted to marry: 
I liked you and I thought — the Lord only knows 
what I thought — But it’s true I did n’t love you. 
I just wanted a wife. But now I do love you: I be- 
lieve I loved you from that very day, though I didn’t 
want you to change your mind then. You ’d got your- 
self up onto a pedestal somehow. But all the time 
I ’ve wanted you. By Jove, I never knew that I could 
want any one so much. Of course, I ’m too old for 
you — eh, what?” 

“Yes.” 

“And fat and ugly.” 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t think you need say it like that. It’s not 
exactly kind.” 

“I — Oh, I was n’t listening, wasn’t thinking what 
I was saying. I was just wondering when you ’d got 
to go to Baden.” 

“The middle of the month, the doctor says.” 

“If you could put it off to the end” — Lydia’s 
face was grave with untold calculation — “we might 
manage it.” 


,365 


SIMPSON 


“Then you will marry me?” 

“Well, you can’t go alone, like that, can you?” 

Banks pulled her down and kissed her. Her black 
hat was all awry as she released herself ; but her blue 
eyes were full of colour, her cheeks flushed. She 
looked very young and pretty : so young and pretty 
that he experienced a qualm of self-depreciation. 

“You don’t — you could n’t love me? What could 
you see in me?” 

“I don’t know,” confessed Lydia gauchely; and 
stood for a moment looking down at him, with an 
odd expression, as if half puzzled, half amused. 
“Well, anyhow, I brought you out your tea,” she 
said, as though that were an adequate reason; then, 
with sudden audacity, stooped and kissed him. 
“But somehow I do love you; I suppose it’s because 
I ’m sorry for you.” 

Banks winced. 

“Yet not altogether that: more because you make 
me feel that nobody will have any right to be sorry 
for me any more. You make me feel somebody; and 
after thirty-five years of Mamma, that alone ’s worth 
having. But it is n’t only that either.” She stooped 
again and for one moment laid her cheek against his. 
“It’s just somehow because you’re you. And, of 
course, if you were very young and handsome and 
all that, you would n’t love me,” she added, while 
Banks grinned feebly, with the expression of a child 
who finds the powder at the bottom of his spoonful 
of jam. 


366 


BANKS IS ACCEPTED 


And this was as much, in the way of flattery, as 
he got ; either then or at any other time. A fact which 
drew out his love for his wife till it became a lifelong 
habit ; though, curiously enough, she never knew how 
or why she ruled him. 

“Another!” said Simpson, when they told him of 
the engagement, and sighed: though he was glad; 
for somehow other people’s happiness made his own 
ultimate success seem the more possible. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


PARRIFLEET AND THE LADY OF THE OPAL 

It was seven o’clock in the morning, about a week 
after the engagement ; and Parrifleet had been sitting 
up all night in his little kiosk in the park, busied 
over a pendant; an opal, set in a filigree of silver, 
which was to be one of Banks’s many presents to his 
bride, for he was one of those people whose affection 
is expressed by more or less showy gifts. 

The wedding was fixed for the first of June. There 
was no great hurry for the ornament to be finished ; 
but first the silverwork, then something of the mys- 
terious depths of light and shade in the stone, fas- 
cinated Parrifleet, who had slipped away back to 
his workshop directly dinner was over. And he was 
still there: not that he had been working all night; 
but he had been brooding, dreaming over it ; taking 
down one of his books after another and reading all 
they had to tell of opals; sitting with the stone in 
his hand ; the electric light, shaded at one side, turned 
full upon it — “realising it,” as he would have said; 
while the flame in its midst seemed to leap out and 
fuse with some flame of life in himself. 

It was intensely quiet. The one window and door 
were wide open. Now and then there came the rustle 
368 


THE LADY OF THE OPAL 


and twitter of a bird, and towards two o’clock the 
soft breath and passing step of cattle, restless as the 
earth turned in its sleep, seeking fresh pastures. But 
otherwise the silence could almost be felt. There was 
no moon, and the world outside was a mere space of 
deep indigo sky, with the dim bulk of trees upreared 
against it, and a deep mass of indistinguishable 
earth. 

The little kiosk had taken upon itself much of the 
aspect of the room at Clifford’s Inn, save that there 
were more books. But by night there was little to 
be seen ; for the one light — which left the eight 
angles of the walls untouched : with darkness sitting 
brooding like a sulky child in each corner — was 
concentrated full upon Parrifleet’s hands, which lay 
upwards, one upon another; the opal, misted round 
with a fairy work of silver, in the palm of the upper- 
most; his back and the lower part of his figure be- 
ing in shadow, with the light laid in a flat wash over 
his face. 

To say that he worshipped the stone is to credit 
him with idolatry ; but certainly he worshipped it as 
much as any idolater ever worships any image, icon 
or relic : as a fire worshipper worships fire — for what 
it symbolises : as a Catholic adores the image of Mary, 
not for itself but for what the original may grant to 
him. Nay, more, for it seemed that he not only drew 
some mysterious influence out from the stone, but 
breathed into it that which augmented its powers, for 
the flame seemed to leap and quiver beneath his gaze. 

369 


SIMPSON 


In Mexico it is believed that the opal is the soul 
of truth. And it was truth that Lydia and Banks 
both needed: the courage to see life as it really is, 
neither corseted, nor dished up with truffles. It is 
also the stone of love — and they still had far to travel 
on that path — uniting in its many shades the vir- 
tues of all the stones with whose tints it is blazoned, 
the strength of the ruby, the prosperity of the tur- 
quoise, the faithfulness of the emerald. 

After a while the thought of Banks and Lydia 
faded away, and it seemed to Parrifleet that he was 
alone with the opal: that they were two intensely 
vital, quite separate, and yet harmonious entities: 
that this stone meant more to him than any other 
stone had ever meant before: that it was the very 
centre and source of his life: while not only was it 
wonderful to him, but he was wonderful to it; draw- 
ing out the soul of it; that wonderful wavering flame 
which dwelt beneath the flakes of many-coloured 
crystal — as new life dwells beneath the superposed 
tissues of a tulip-bulb — for some definite end. 

Of course, he was mad: all such super-devotees 
are mad. But this is what he believed : that the flame 
of the opal — which he knew to be its soul — drew 
itself out from the stone which lay upon his palm, 
and in a flood of light gathered to the form of a 
woman, the most beautiful he had ever seen: or so 
he believed, not only at that moment, but always. 

No one ever contradicted him. Parrifleet’s soul 
seemed about as much allied to his frail body as a 
370 


THE LADY OF THE OPAL 


butterfly to the flower on which it alights : any harsh 
word or movement might frighten it away. And 
people felt that ; though they none of them put it so 
poetically as this. They said he had “a bee in his 
bonnet”: that it would not take much “to set him 
off the top”; it was safer to “humour him” — and 
things like that. 

As for Simpson, even when he did realise what 
really had happened, he did not say anything either: 
for to him, also, the beauty of this particular woman 
seemed little short of supernatural. 

As a matter of fact, the blaze of light was caused 
by the sun having just topped the trees, pouring full 
in through the open door, putting the electric light 
to shame. 

But without doubt the woman was there : dressed 
in a white dress that to Parrifleet’s eye might have 
come straight from heaven. As a matter of fact, it 
was Paris, which is much the same thing. That 
Paris which can design morning dresses of so en- 
chanting a simplicity that they would make a Little 
Ilkley frock appear almost dissolute. 

She wore no hat. The sun at the back of her head 
touched the outline of her fair head with a nimbus: 
and she was smiling. 

‘ ‘ Good-morning. ’ ’ 

Without a word Parrifleet rose and stood looking 
at her, with reverence and a sort of pride: more than 
half believing that she was of his own creation. 

“You are very early at work.” 

37i 


SIMPSON 


41 I'Ve been at work all night.” 

“ I think I know who you are : you are Parri fleet the 
jeweller, who makes and believes in beautiful things 
— or do you make them by believing in them?” 
There was a whimsical lift at one corner of her mouth 
as she put the question, and Parrifleet laughed. 

“Now you’re asking what even I don’t know.” 

“May I come in?” 

“Of course,” he answered, and she moved inside; 
bending her head a little beneath the heavy beam at 
the doorway. 

“Why do you do that? — it’s not as low at it 
looks.” 

“I know; it’s a habit. Every one laughs at me, 
but I always dip when I come through a door.” 

“You were taller last time,” remarked Parrifleet 
in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. 

“Do you believe that?” 

“Certainly; don’t you?” 

“Of course. I believe I even remember what I 
was. I was a sailor. I know the oddest things about 
ships : things no one has ever told me. All the door- 
ways, hatches — whatever you call them — were 
low — there was one under the break of the poop — ” 
She hesitated a moment, with a far-away look in her 
eyes. “I dream of it all at night: the great curving 
waves, and the wind in the rigging. I believe — don’t 
tell anybody ” — her voice dropped to a confidential, 
laughing whisper — “that if ever I had to go under 
chloroform, I should swear — great round mouth- 
372 


THE LADY OF THE OPAL 


filling sailors’ oaths.” There was a moment’s pause: 
then she leant across the table and looked at the opal 
which lay in Parrifleet’s hand. 

“What a lovely thing!” 

“Yes,” agreed Parrifleet gravely; “ but the heart’s 
gone out of it.” And he laid it gently on the table. 

“The heart of an opal — ?” 

“Is the soul of truth. Do you know anything of 
precious stones?” 

“Not much, I’m afraid.” 

“Well, you must know — ” he began ; and launched 
forth on his beloved subject, his pale face aglow. 

For the best part of an hour they talked. Then, 
suddenly, as it seemed to Parrifleet, she said she must 
go, and she went. 

“Where?” queried Finch, who was listening to 
Parrifleet with evident, though affectionate amuse- 
ment : lolling half in and half out of the dining-room 
window, — while Simpson plied the visionary with 
a long-deferred breakfast, — for Mrs. Finch was 
back in Town again, and he was sketching and idling 
in the apparently desultory manner which always 
produced his best work. 

“Where? Oh, I don’t know; it doesn’t matter, 
does it?” 

“Not unless you want to see the lady again.” 

“I shall see her again. Marmalade! Please, Mr. 
Simpson — there never was, or will be, another such 
food.” For a moment or so the little man ate in 
silence: then took up his subject again. 

373 


SIMPSON 


“Of course, I shall see her. There are people in life 
one never more than just brushes by : from whom one 
gains nothing; to whom one gives nothing. People 
who, though they may be the pivot of another’s life, 
— and that ’s always very difficult to realise and re- 
member, — are no more to you than a faintly pen- 
cilled drawing. You may be introduced to them again 
and again, know all their relations, their personal 
history, admire and approve. But that is all. It is 
no use arranging meetings; striving to know each 
other better: you ’ll never get any nearer. Love and 
friendship are as inevitable as all else in this inevit- 
able world. You may first meet at the Antipodes, 
and each go opposite ways — perhaps without even 
speaking. But if you are native to each other you 
will meet again and again. People lose half their 
energy in contriving and planning. They are like 
men who would try to hurry on an express train by 
getting out and pushing : or — to use a very homely 
simile — like certain impatient persons, who, instead 
of waiting for a ’bus, imagine they save time by 
walking on, so that it may overtake them.” 

“Your principle is that everything comes to those 
who wait ; or else they wait so long they forget what 
they’re waiting for, eh?” mocked Finch. “All the 
same, Parrifleet, I think it ’s distinctly unchivalrous 
to just sit tight and let the lady come to you : though 
no doubt it strengthens your position.” 

“We don’t think of those sort of things: those 
petty manoeuvres of petty minds.” 

374 


THE LADY OF THE OPAL 


“We — ? So that's what it’s arrived at — al- 
ready! I see it all now. It means another wed- 
ding present. A conglomeration of Artemis and 
Endymion, a Registry Office and silver cruets from 
Elkin ton’s.” 

“Not for me, Mr. Finch.” Parrifleet glanced at 
Simpson and smiled. For there was a girl in Putney: 
a curiously matter-of-fact, quiet, middle-class young 
woman. Simpson had been taken out there to tea 
one day, and wondered where the attraction could 
lie ; though after a while he realised the sense of rest 
that her calm good sense afforded to a man of Parri- 
fleet’s calibre ; the beneficent attraction that the ab- 
normal feels towards the priceless virtues of the com- 
monplace. Yet for all that, Parrifleet was but human. 

He caught the doubt in Simpson’s eye and smiled. 
“Oh, no. Believe me I have some idea of congruity: 
of the place I am in now, on this special plane, and 
the place to which she belongs.” 

He rose from the table as he spoke, and pushed 
back his chair ; then stood for a moment in his most 
characteristic attitude: his head a little drooping, 
his eyes raised and fixed on Simpson. “No, no. 
Though our orbits run parallel, they never actually 
touch. There is some other influence — what I do 
not know: feel that I have no right to enquire. 
Though I wonder — ” He hesitated a moment: 
then added, as if putting aside some idea which had 
momentarily diverted his thoughts: “But I shall see 
her again; that goes without saying.” 

375 


SIMPSON 


And he was right. For the very next day “the 
Lady of the Opal ” — as he called her — came again 
to the kiosk; and lingered, talking and watching 
him at work. And again and again for several days ; 
while he recounted each meeting to the others ; show- 
ing absolutely no fear, either of disbelief or ridicule. 

“I ’d like to see this paragon. I love mystery! 
And beauty and mystery in conjunction are irresist- 
ible. Why not bring her home to tea? I suppose she 
does eat and drink occasionally,” suggested Finch 
one day; but more to please Parrifleet than from any 
feeling of real curiosity. For though they all loved 
him, in this one respect they all — even Simpson — 
quite insensibly showed their realisation of the differ- 
ence between their rank and his; they had no con- 
fidence in his judgment of women; as he knew; and 
smiled over the knowledge. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S OWN 
PROPERTY 

The ioth of June had come round once more, and 
never had Fountains Court appeared more perfect. 
Some old writers speak of a beauty as being “in 
face.” Such a term would have suited Fountains at 
this time. There had been a quantity of soft-falling 
rain in May. The growth was fresh and luxurious, 
just at the very zenith of its perfection: the Italian 
garden ablaze with bright, low-growing plants ; the 
herb-garden, soberer in tint and infinitely sweet; 
the herbaceous borders a masque of colour. 

Simpson had been busied over the garden ever 
since he took the place ; not only giving Bliss an am- 
ple number of helpers, but himself seeing to every- 
thing: planning and working incessantly; getting 
more pleasure out of it than he could have believed 
possible. 

Months before, Finch had let fall a few casual 
words as to the effect of colour. ‘ ‘ Red loses all its 
brilliance in the shade, is the first colour to die out 
when the sun goes. Plant white, and all the gradua- 
tions of lavenders and blues and purples — and per- 
haps pale yellow, such as the evening primrose — 
377 


SIMPSON 


beneath the trees : — think of the effect of peri- 
winkles or bluebells in a shady wood! Keep your 
scarlets and crimsons and oranges for the sunny 
places, Simpson. People call them hot colours, and 
they’re right: they have an affinity for light and 
heat. That’s all they go with, as the Indian natives 
know; they’re not afraid of hot colours.” 

Thus there were shady places with all the pale and 
tender hues; and blazing borders jutting out into the 
green turf. And sweetness everywhere. And every- 
where — billowing over the walls of the herb-garden, 
over every unsightly tree and arch and pergola, push- 
ing aside the other plants in beds and borders — 
were roses. Such a plenitude of roses that the whole 
air smelt of them. 

The garden was, indeed, at its highest point of 
perfection: the inside of the house shining with a 
smug air of self-conscious cleanliness after the spring 
upheaval, during which Mrs. Bliss had condemned 
Simpson to a miserable three weeks’ banishment. 

Now the frame was perfect. But it was empty. 
Finch, once the most constant occupant, was in 
London, more nonchalant and bored than ever; 
though there was something of real unhappiness in 
his face which made Simpson anxious. Now and then 
he would take himself off to the Continent, or down 
to Cornwall on some sketching expedition. But it 
seemed that he did not have much time: that he 
was everlastingly painting portraits; as though the 
ugly drudgery of art had only been increased by his 
378 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 


marriage, proportionately with Lilian’s spending 
capacity. 

He never complained, was always perfectly polite 
to his wife, whose stream of aimless talk had gath- 
ered a shriller note, while her old habit of always 
lighting on the subject which people most wished to 
avoid was marked by a spiteful deliberation which it 
had before lacked. For somehow it seemed that they 
had neither of them got what they bargained for. 

Gale had almost finished his Oxford work — work 
which was to bring him fame — climbed to the high- 
est point of success; then been flipped off by the 
cynical finger of Fate. One lung was completely 
gone, the other touched: if he wanted to live he 
must get away out of England. Every doctor said 
the same, for he had tried many in the vain hope 
that all the others might be proved wrong; and 
finally — desperately desirous of life, though he de- 
clared that he could see no reason for wanting to 
live — he had drifted to California where he started 
fruit farming in a spirit of bitter antagonism. 

Van Rennen and his wife were back in Siberia: 
and a week earlier Simpson had received a telegram 
with: — “Love from Bill: all well.” Banks was off 
on his honeymoon. Even Parrifleet was away, over 
in Boston attending a conference regarding some 
new — and, as it seemed to Simpson, peculiarly 
backboneless — sect, which believed that the entire 
human race was evolved from the precious stones 
mentioned as the foundation of the New Jerusalem: 

379 


SIMPSON 


in their first essence emanations from the Heavenly 
Being Himself; and about to become, in their last 
visible presentment, super-men and women. 

By this time no one would have objected to the 
presence of ladies at Fountains. Indeed, it had lost 
all semblance of a celibates’ club; for Finch and his 
wife, and Julie and Van Rennen had both stayed 
there; while Dorothy ran down for an occasional 
breath of country air, drawing upon herself an un- 
failing visit from Mrs. Cartwright, for the express 
purpose of remonstrating with her on the unconven- 
tionality of her behaviour : a purpose which frizzled 
out to nothing under Dorothy’s calm and aloof gaze. 

‘‘Of course, she’s almost a nun,” the old lady 
remarked to her husband. “And nuns and nurses 
and artists and all those sort of people seem to think 
they can do anything. Talk about the stage! Myself, 
I think that actresses are much more careful of 
appearances. Think how awkward it would be if 
Mr. Simpson married her. It would set the whole 
county talking. Really, one would scarcely know 
whether to call on her, and yet, — I’m sure she ’s 
really quite nice.” 

But, excepting for Dorothy and the two married 
ladies, there seemed no desire to invade Simpson’s 
solitude; which increased, though he drifted in and 
out of perfunctory sort of acquaintanceships with 
the people who lived round, in those big houses set 
in an oasis of park: which, separating them from the 
common herd, differentiated them as “ county.” 

380 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 

But though he was solitary, he was not lonely. 
His days were full ; and the villagers — despite the 
fact that they had destroyed his every illusion 
regarding the guilelessness of the rustic mind — 
interested him. They were so circuitous and long- 
winded, — having a habit of thought which impelled 
them to say all that they had to say over one shoul- 
der, as they walked away : beginning with a conven- 
tional greeting when they came abreast of him, and 
reaching the grist of their complaint, need, or scan- 
dal, in a bellow, when they were at least twenty 
yards distant. 

Then they were so clumsily cunning in all that 
they did; showing a childish slyness, which would 
have been amusing, if it had not been at once pa- 
thetic and exasperating. 

The illegitimate child of a daughter was a 
“ nephew” or “niece,” spoken of with a peculiar 
leer, quite sufficiently explanatory: an unalterable 
ne’er-do-well a “chronic.” They would beg for an 
extra room onto their cottages because the children 
were growing up — and it did n’t seem right allow- 
ing them to sleep together; then let it to a lodger. 
If they wanted a new copper in the back kitchen or 
a coat of whitewash, it was never the person who 
asked for it who appeared to want it. 

It was always: — “I ain’t not got no complaints 
to make. But Mrs. Jones, she came in t’other day 
an’ she did say — an’ there ain’t no denyin’ as she 
spoke the truth, savin’ your presence, sir — that it 
38i 


SIMPSON 


were in a real muck; an’ the Rector he do say the 
same. An’ the missis she do always be on about it : 
only this very mornin’ she says to me, she says, says 
she — ” etc., etc. 

Sometimes it amused Simpson to circumvent these 
people. But every day he was growing more toler- 
ant : recognising the old slave spirit at the bottom of 
all their petty deceptions; the pitiful smallness of a 
life where so much trouble could be taken for so 
little; and did what was asked of him. 

Though it was not his business. 

But money seemed to be scarce at Little Ilkley, 
which, for the most part, belonged to the owner of 
Fountains; and wages were appallingly low, while 
dilapidations were piling up each day. 

The will to help did not appear to be lacking. The 
agent, an old man, long past his work and painfully 
ignorant of all the expectations of modern life, tin- 
kered and patched perpetually at cottages which 
ought, by rights, to have come down: while fences 
were mended with scraps of barbed wire or netting. 

When the people were ill — as they often were; 
every man over fifty being crippled with rheumatism, 
and coughs and bronchitis rife; for the houses were 
at once airless and damp, many of the kitchens being 
below the level of the road — there came myste- 
rious bottles of port wine, packets of tea, lengths of 
flannel, or a few hundredweight of coal ; all of which 
exasperated Simpson, who could not see why the 
people should be patronised, ground down by low 
3 82 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 

wages and doles: given a bag of coals instead of a 
new roof. 

‘‘There’s not six houses in the village fit for pigs; 
no modern North Country farmer would leave his 
pig in such a place. What ’s the good of putting a 
prop here and a tile there? The whole place wants 
rebuilding.” 

“It’s all very well to talk,” murmured Mr. 
Gaunt, shaking his already trembling head : — “ but 
where ’s the money to come from? That ’s it : where ’s 
the money to come from?” 

“Where does the money come from for all the 
slops and scraps that are tossed to them?” 

“Mrs. Reannie has always been used to giving in 
charity,” answered the old man stiffly. 

“She’d do better for herself, and her people, too, 
if she ’d pull down those places and start afresh. One 
wants common sense and drains, not charity. Can’t 
you persuade her, if she does n’t like spending 
money, that it really would pay in the end?” 

“ It is n’t that she does n’t like spending it. She ’d 
spend every penny she’s got — sometimes I don’t 
dare to tell her about things for fear she ’ll deny her- 
self too much. She can afford to send little odds and 
ends to the villagers, because she does that out of her 
income: but she can’t rebuild those houses; for I 
regret to say that if she did there would n’t be any- 
thing left. I ’m not fond of discussing my employ- 
ers’ affairs,” he went on stiffly: — “but I am much 
attached to Mrs. Reannie, as I was to her father and 
383 


SIMPSON 


mother before her: and I don’t like to think of her 
being misjudged.” The old man spoke with dignity 
and pride. “She ’s a beautiful woman, a fine creature, 
all heart and feeling. But there it is. I lie awake at 
night turning it over and over in my mind: but it 
always ends the same. I can see no way out — ex- 
cepting one,” he added sadly. 

“Why won’t she sell the place? I made her an 
offer for it nearly a year ago,” said Simpson. Then 
he added kindly: “You’d stay on with me, I hope; 
to see that I looked after things, fulfilled all obliga- 
tions.” 

“You are very kind, Mr. Simpson, but I would 
n’t expect you to consider me — why should you? 
Besides, I sometimes think that I ’m getting beyond 
my work — must be getting beyond it or I could 
surely manage better. Anyway, I don’t know if I ’d 
have the heart to start afresh with a stranger — 
thanking you all the same for the kind thought. You 
see, ” he added half apologetically, “I’ve been with 
the Reannies always, and my father and grand- 
father before me.” 

“And would feel I was an outsider.” 

“It’s not that, it’s not that, indeed, Mr. Simp- 
son — ” The agent had been down to Fountains 
about some trifling business and Simpson was walk- 
ing home across the park with him : very slowly, with 
many long pauses, for the old man had lost the art of 
walking and talking at the same time. Now they had 
reached the lodge gates and turning stood and gazed 
384 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 


down across the park, at the sweep of undulating 
green, the great trees, casting huge velvety shadows, 
for it was getting towards sunset ; while below them, 
in its nest of growth, they could see the old grey 
house, dreaming beneath its veil of blue smoke. 

“That’s the only reason,’’ — and he waved his 
arm. “It seems somehow to belong to the Reannies, 
to be part of them : as much — if I may be allowed a 
somewhat poetical simile — as the soul is part of the 
body. So many Reannies have lived and died there : 
I ’ve a sort of feeling as though they ’d rise in their 
graves if it was sold. But I should n’t tell Mrs. 
Reannie that. No, no, I’m severely practical when 
I talk to her, poor lady.” And he chuckled wisely. 
“For that’s what it will come to, that’s what it will 
come to. I ’ve seen it coming for a long while back, 
and I believe she’s beginning to realise it, too: I 
know she was talking to Mr. Strang about it: she’ll 
be bound to sell, for every one’s sake.” 

“Then I hope she’ll give me the first offer.” 

“You may be sure of that, Mr. Simpson. You 
must know that we are not unmindful of all you have 
done for the place,” replied the agent, with an air of 
gentle grandeur. “We are not — I speak for the 
family, you understand — the sort of people to allow 
any benefit to pass unrecognised. Mrs. Reannie 
spoke to me most feelingly — most feelingly, only 
a sennight ago — of your great generosity. And I 
think I may say, I feel sure I may say, that you 
will very shortly hear from Messrs. MacCracken and 
385 


SIMPSON 


MacCracken. For it ’s got to come” — again he 
shook his head with an air of melancholy resigna- 
tion — “yes, ^ ’ s g°t to come.” 

“I've grown fond of the place; somehow seem to 
belong to it,” said Simpson almost boyishly. 

The old agent gave him a puzzled glance. “Yes,” 
he said, “there’s something in that. You do seem 
to belong to it : as though it was your natural right. 
And you a stranger. For three years are nothing here 
in Little Ilkley. It ’s wonderful how you ’ve dropped 
into our ways. I must confess that when I first heard 
that the place had been taken by a London gentle- 
man, I was very much disturbed: anticipating all 
sorts of innovations and alterations. And there have 
been alterations, but all for the best : I will say that, 
Mr. Simpson, all for the best ; there is no doubt about 
it, I only wish that Mrs. Reannie would consent to 
meet you herself. I feel that some arrangement 
might be come to, some compromise effected” — 
an oddly sly look came into the old man’s guileless 
face: “Mrs. Reannie is still young.” 

“Yes,” answered Simpson rather absent-mind- 
edly, for he was not very interested in his landlady : 
“but apparently Mrs. Reannie is not very anxious to 
know me.” 

“Well, it was — you must excuse me if I mention 
it” — the old man’s lowered tone implied his sense 
of a flagrant indecency — “it was — well, the fact 
of your having been on — you must forgive me for 
speaking of it — on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Simp- 
386 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 

son, which prejudiced us all, in the first instance, so 
to speak.” 

Simpson grinned. “Well, as a matter of fact we 
often mention it — feel no shame about it. I assure 
you, Mr. Gaunt, that there are some very honest men 
on the Stock Exchange.” 

“Doubtless, Mr. Simpson, doubtless. But we 
Reannies — I quite realise that we are behind the 
times — have never been accustomed to think so. I 
see my trap is waiting here, so I will wish you a very 
good-evening; and, believe me, that I feel that if 
Fountains Court must be sold, it can be in no better 
hands than yours. Good-night to you, sir.” 

“A damned narrow-minded woman!” thought 
Simpson, as he tramped home round by the little 
spinney and through the herb garden: “A damned 
selfish old fool! To keep all these wretched people 
stewing in their sties, just to feed her own silly pride : 
and that old fellow’s as bad — ‘we Reannies,’ in- 
deed ! I doubt if she ’ll sell : I dare say she ’d rather 
let every villager in the place die, if only she can sop 
her conscience with sixpenny worth of soup.” 

But he was wrong; for the very week after his 
talk with the agent he received a letter from Mac- 
Cracken and MacCracken to say that Mrs. Reannie 
contemplated selling Fountains Court and empow- 
ered them to give him the first offer of it: at the same 
time mentioning the price asked. 

It was an audacious sum; and in a fit of petulance 
Simpson wrote back declaring that he would give no 

387 


SIMPSON 


more than two thirds for the place and everything in 
it; then spent a miserable night thinking that he 
might have lost it. 

But, with a promptitude which showed that things 
had reached a parlous state, that the owner of Foun- 
tains could not afford to wait, came the acceptance 
of his offer: a week or two might pass before the sale 
was concluded, but for all practical purposes the 
beloved place was his, with the very portraits in the 
dining-room; the plants in the borders: the tumble- 
down cottages : the stately trees. All — all — save 
for a few books which Mrs. Reannie wished for out 
of the morning-room shelves : and that one picture 
of the fair ringleted girl, who, as he learnt for the 
first time, was his landlady’s mother, the late Mrs. 
Reannie. 

The sudden fulfilment of his hopes left Simpson 
a little aghast, a little scared; with an odd feeling 
of disappointment. He remembered Agar Finch 
declaring this to be the sensation of every one who 
got what he wanted : that the true art of life lay in 
never putting out your hand to actually touch the 
most coveted fruit. “That is, if you happen to be 
one of those dust and ashes sort of people,” he added. 
And Simpson had laughed, not feeling like one of 
“those sort of people.” 

But now for the first time he realised the truth of 
his friend’s words. He had got what he had so long 
desired. Fountains was his. But what a blank came 
with it. Of the seven original members of the Club, 
388 


FOUNTAINS COURT BECOMES SIMPSON’S 


he alone remained. Poor old Desmond’s place was 
empty forever : Kirkland might come back, but only 
for a flying visit : while the others had their own inti- 
mate personal life; even Finch, who seemed to avoid 
him as though afraid of being questioned. 

Simpson thought of Van Rennen and Julie in their 
hut — two-roomed by now — among the pines : with 
all the delight of a primitive married life, full of 
arduous days; and of the little “Bill” to whom he 
was to stand as godfather. It seemed that Fountains 
had become overlarge, painfully empty, while for 
the first time he realised his own loneliness. 

“ Beamy the world, but a blank all the same 
Framework that waits for a picture to frame." 

He had no idea where the words came from : was not 
even sure that he had got them right; but remem- 
bered hearing Desmond quote something of the 
sort more than a year ago, and wondered what it 
meant. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


SIMPSON IS NOT ALTOGETHER FREE FROM 
DISCONTENT 

Thus, by the ioth of June, Fountains Court was 
practically Simpson’s own. All the morning he had 
spent riding about the village, noting the utterly 
hopeless cottages ; and consulting with a local 
builder and architect, who possessed, as he had al- 
ready discovered, a rare talent for doing what he 
was told. 

The people did not want any alterations : hated the 
idea of being turned out of the old homes: — “Us 
’ave lived ’ere close on thirty year: an’ we ain’t 
taken no ’arm,” said one man, voicing the general 
opinion of the villagers : completely losing sight of the 
fact that he was a helpless cripple at fifty, while out 
of eleven children he had “buried eight.” But that 
was all “the Lord’s will. ’E took ’em.” 

But despite the futility of the arguments put for- 
ward, Simpson felt bound to respect the people’s 
feelings: however much they hampered him. For it 
seemed that their tumbledown dwellings were as 
dear to them as Fountains was to the Reannies; and 
if the country had taught him nothing else, it had 
taught him tolerance. 


390 


SIMPSON NOT FREE FROM DISCONTENT 


At first go off he had believed that the people 
must be as eager for change and betterment as he 
himself: that they would be happy if their many 
causes for complaint were removed. But after a 
while he found that fresh sources of grievance were 
always at hand. A new cottage was condemned if its 
fireplace was put one inch nearer to the window, not 
leaving room for the chest of drawers which had 
always stood in that particular place : if the kitchen 
floor showed an area that took a quarter of an hour 
to scrub instead of ten minutes. One woman even 
complained that when the floor was mended she was 
“real put to ” because there was no longer that famil- 
iar hollow where the cradle could be stood without 
any fear of its being rocked over; while another 
missed the pig-sty, being so far from the window 
that scraps could no longer be tipped out, and the 
tablecloth shaken, straight into it. 

They were in terror of losing the Christmas doles, 
the odds and ends accorded to them when they were 
ill: finding no benefit in the promise of health, 
the proffered exchange of sanitary and water-tight 
houses, or even higher wages. For their minds had 
been so ground down to the minute, that they could 
realise nothing in the large; calculating life in far- 
things ; living so completely for the needs of each day 
that they were unable to see beyond it. 

All Simpson’s hopes had revived afresh when he 
felt that the Fountains estate was really his : he would 
sink his personal loneliness in the joys of reformation. 

39i 


SIMPSON 


But that first morning quenched his enthusiasm: 
though it did nothing to weaken his determination. 

At first he thought of turning out the people: 
rebuilding the place, starting it all afresh. But, in 
the afternoon, pottering about the garden, he mel- 
lowed, grew softer. 

Dividing and trimming, for the wet spring had 
resulted in an excess of growth, he missed a clump 
of Madonna lilies, which he had looked for each year: 
discovering them at last, in bud, but scarcely likely 
to flower on account of a mass of goldenrod which 
choked them, shutting out air and light. 

He was extraordinarily glad to find the lilies still 
there ; to see the first blooms on a little yellow Scotch 
rose; to encounter one old favourite after another, 
as he sidled his way, through the mass of bloom on 
the herbaceous border, to nail up a rose which, heavy 
with flowers, had tom itself away from the wall. 
And suddenly the thought came to him that the 
people felt the same about their little gardens: fur- 
nished with cuttings from wedding bouquets and 
funeral wreaths ; with scraps given them by this friend 
or that relation : that their tumbledown cottages were 
as much to them — nay, a great deal more, for they 
were interwoven with their closest personal life, their 
loves and griefs — as Fountains, beautiful Foun- 
tains, aloof and dreamy, was to him. 

There was only one thing for it. He must take 
up the task of patching and propping : submit to the 
incessant grumbling as the old folks’ one dissipation. 

392 


SIMPSON NOT FREE FROM DISCONTENT 


And meanwhile start building afresh for the young 
couples : not only houses of brick and mortar, but 
some characteristic of sturdy independence. 

Jervis brought his tea into the garden, a monster 
cup in which he delighted when he was alone, and 
a thick slice of bread and butter, that tasted of soil 
as he ate it ; standing on the lawn at the edge of the 
border, without coat or waistcoat, his cup in hand, 
planning certain removals and additions which must 
be got through in the autumn. 

He had grown thinner and harder in these years 
he had been at Fountains; and was burnt a brick 
red; while his clothes had lost all semblance of 
newness. He no longer looked like a city man mas- 
querading as a country squire : rather wore his Lon- 
don clothes, the top hat and frock coat, which had 
once seemed as much part of himself as his skin, 
with an air of strangeness. 

“You’ve grown to look positively bucolic, Simp- 
son,” Banks had complained the last time they were 
in Town together. But he was wrong. For the word 
implies a diminution of mind and soul, and in both 
these Simpson had gained : along with that sense of 
quiet which comes from a close friendship with in- 
animate nature. 

It was half-past seven when he went in to bathe 
and dress ready for dinner. There had been occa- 
sions when he had sat down to this meal without 
changing — indeed, he never thought of donning 
anything more elaborate than a loose smoking- 
393 


SIMPSON 


jacket when he was alone in his London chambers. 
But the Reannies seemed to impose on him a sense 
of obligation, of family life: looking down at him 
from their wide gold frames with surprise and scorn 
if he transgressed any of the stately routine to which 
they were accustomed ; giving him an uncomfortable 
feeling that he was behaving discourteously; ought 
to apologise. 

Finch had apologised to them once, for offending 
their gazes with the tubular abomination of trou- 
sers : instead of the armour, the doublets and hose, 
the elegant silk tights, or — more modern velvet 
shorts, silk stockings, and buckled shoes in which 
they were attired. “ By our legs shall ye know us,” 
he had said: “clothed — not dressed — ! parodies 
of humanity!” 

The Early Victorian portrait had already gone, as 
Simpson noticed the moment that he sat down to his 
soup. 

“A man came for it this afternoon,” explained 
Jervis, as he poured out the sherry. “ I didn’t trouble 
you about it, sir, as you was busy. And Mrs. Bliss 
said as ’ow it was all right, seeing as she knew the 
man. I hope I did n’t do wrong, sir?” 

“No — ” Simpson spoke doubtfully, for the ab- 
sence of the picture left a blank, a feeling of empti- 
ness in the room : gave him an odd sensation of being 
in disgrace. “No — you couldn’t have done any- 
thing else. But it leaves an ugly blank, does n’t it? 
— eh, Jervis? We must put something else there.” 

394 


SIMPSON NOT FREE FROM DISCONTENT 


“We was thinking, Mrs. Bliss and I, if you’ll 
excuse me mentioning it, sir, that you might have 
some picture of your own as you ’d like to have there. 
Some of those things you used to have in Town — 
it seems a sin and a shame to keep them all stored 
away: wasting, so to speak — or one of Mr. Finch’s 
pictures.” 

“I don’t think — somehow — that they would 
quite suit. We must think it over — perhaps we 
might rearrange, move the others a little.” 

“Perhaps so, sir. Champagne, sir.” 

“Why champagne?” enquired Simpson curiously, 
though he submitted to have his glass filled. 

“We always have had champagne on the ioth, 
sir: Mrs. Bliss took particular pains with the dinner 
to-night; and there’s the flowers an’ all.” For the 
first time Simpson realised that the branching 
candelabra were lighted, the table loaded with roses. 

“We thought as ’ow it always had happened as 
some one had turned up that was n’t exactly ex- 
pected, so to speak. And seeing as there was no 
reason why things should n’t be as nice with you 
alone here, sir — ” the man hesitated evidently at 
a loss for words — crippled by unfamiliar sentiment : 
then added with a rush: “Anyhow, there’s Mr. and 
Mrs. Van Rennen’s little son, who ’as ’is ’ealth to 
be drunk : the first offspring, so to speak, of this ’ere 
celibates’ club — Duckling, sir, an’ green peas; an’ 
asparagus to follow.” 

The dinner seemed very, very long, for it was evi- 

395 


SIMPSON 


dent that Mrs. Bliss had determined to honour the 
day. But long as it was, no uninvited guest appeared 
and Simpson finished it alone. As Jervis placed the 
dessert on the table, he bade him bring another glass 
and fill it with champagne. 

“ Now, Jervis, as we are the only two left, we will 
drink each other’s health, and the health of all those 
who are absent.” 

Simpson rose from the table and bowed gravely 
with his glass in his hand. “ Your very good health, 
Jervis: a long life and happiness. I wonder,” he 
added rather sadly, “if you’ll have gone, too, by 
this time next year.” 

“Not by the thorny path of matrimony, sir, you 
may rest assured of that. Your very good health, 
sir, and long life and prosperity.” 

“And now we will drink to Mr. and Mrs. Van 
Rennen.” 

“And Master Van Rennen,” prompted Jervis. 

“And Mr. Kirkland, who we must remember is 
still a member of the Club ; and Mr. Gale, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Banks, and Mr. Parrifleet — ” 

“And to Miss Sartoris, sir, if I might make so 
bold.” 

“And to Miss Sartoris; and to all absent friends. 
Thank you, Jervis. — Yes, you may bring the coffee 
here, and that will be all.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


SIMPSON MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY FOR THE 
FIRST TIME 

The table had been mulcted of several leaves; but it 
still looked appallingly long as Simpson sat alone, 
gazing dreamily down its flower-laden length towards 
the open window, with its square of indigo, star- 
pierced sky while the house seemed unnaturally 
still when Jervis, having placed the coffee- tray at his 
master’s elbow, turned and left the room: so still 
that he could even hear the soft thud of the baize 
door, which led to the servants’ quarters, swing to 
behind the man. 

For a while he sat staring in front of him, stirring 
his coffee: then, having drunk it, he rose and taking 
one of the big branching candlesticks from the dining- 
room table moved slowly round the room ; holding 
it high above his head: looking at each portrait in 
turn; trying to imagine them as rearranged in such 
a fashion as to nullify the loss of the one that was 
gone. 

But something in their expression forbade the very 
idea of treating them as though they were inanimate 
objects — a “ touch-me-not” air, which, without 
doubt, they had worn in life. 

397 


SIMPSON 


As mere pictures they were none of them of great 
value — excepting the lady in white satin, which, 
as Simpson had discovered at the valuation, was 
indeed a Lely. But they were all well painted, 
several of them by the pupils of famous men : while 
the originals had imparted to them an air, an in- 
dividuality, which still clung : that air which consti- 
tutes the outward difference between the somebodies 
and nobodies of this world. For they were at once 
scornful and indifferent: inviolate in their pride of 
place. That man with slashed sleeves and flowing 
curls, his plumed hat in one hand, the other resting 
upon the hilt of his sword, — a very man despite the 
effeminacy of his dress, — had always hung beside 
the beauty in white: it would never do to shift them. 
The Georgian squire must remain near his behooped 
lady. The judge in his robes and the boy with the 
pony — evidently father and son — could scarcely 
be separated. Indeed, now he came to look at them, 
Simpson saw that they were all paired: excepting 
the young ensign with his small, closely cut whiskers, 
grey eyes and sensitive lips, who hung, somewhat 
detached from the others, next to the empty space. 

And yet, what could one offer him without in- 
sult? Simpson, remembering Jervis’s suggestion, ran 
through his own small stock of pictures ; repudiating 
each in turn: for it was evident f they belonged to 
these people’s world as little as he himself. And 
with a sigh he turned and replaced the candlestick 
on the table, lit a cigar, and stood for a moment 
398 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


thinking: wondering where the picture had been 
taken to, and whither the books were also gone. 
Finally he reached the conclusion that the easiest 
way of solving the question would be to go and see 
for himself, and leaving the dining-room he moved 
across the hall ; found the door of the drawing-room 
open, and felt his way in and out among the swaddled 
furniture without troubling to switch on the light. 

Reaching the door of the morning room he real- 
ised that it was ajar, while a dim yellow ray shone 
through the crack, and pushed it gently open, with 
the vague idea of giving the intruder, whoever he or 
she might be, a surprise. 

The electric light had not been lit, and standing 
on the threshold Simpson saw that the faint radiance, 
which had at first attracted his attention, came from 
a single candle, placed on the floor in front of the 
bookshelves, half the contents of which were laid 
in a heap beside it ; while a woman crouched almost 
double before them, flicked over the leaves of an- 
other volume. The triangular shadow of the pages, 
and the fingers, now long, now short, darting up and 
down the wall — cutting their way across the angle 
of the ceiling — for some moments before she replaced 
the book : took out another, fluttered a page or two, 
and added it to the pile on the floor. 

For the rest, all that Simpson could see was the 
dark silhouette of the bent figure and head, edged 
with a line of light like a narrow gold thread, and 
rows of half-empty bookshelves. 

399 


SIMPSON 


Involuntarily he glanced across at the great oc- 
tagonal window: saw that it was shut and the cur- 
tains tightly drawn. Evidently the intruder had 
come through the house, possibly by the connivance 
of one of the servants: was picking over the books, 
thinking he would imagine Mrs. Reannie had sent 
for them. Possibly the picture had been removed 
in the same fashion, and what could he say when 
the rightful owner should claim it? What he did 
say at that special moment, closing the door sharply 
behind him, was: — 

“Well, I'll be damned!” 

“Oh!” cried the woman, and scrambled to her 
feet, knocking over the candle, which flickered for a 
moment, then went out. 

For a moment or more Simpson fumbled, while 
he could hear her quick breath, and a soft rustle — 
followed by a sudden silence, as though she had made 
a movement to fly, and thought better of it. Then 
his fingers found the electric button, and the room 
was flooded with light: in the midst of which he 
stood, blinking with stupefied amazement. 

The intruder was facing him : still hugging an open 
book to her bosom: her eyes very wide, her lips a 
little open, as though on the edge of fear. For the 
sudden ejaculation from the doorway — when she 
had believed herself alone — then the darkness — had 
been sufficiently alarming: while Simpson’s second 
observation, when it did come, was little more en- 
lightening than his first. 

400 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


“ You — you — ? ” 

It was all he could say. The thing was too amaz- 
ing. That after all his searching, all his longing and 
striving, there, in his morning room, browsing among 
his books, he should find — and greet with an ex- 
pletive! — the Beatrice d’Este lady: the lady of his 
dreams: the woman he had thought of constantly: 
fitted into all that he did, his work in the present, 
his plans for the future : the woman for whom he had 
planted the deepest blue larkspur, because they 
matched the colour of the gown he had once seen her 
wear: the woman for whose sake he had grudged 
every flower that blossomed, because she was not 
there to see it : every season that passed because she 
was n’t there to share it; the close intimacy of winter 
days, the outdoor freedom of the summer, the thrill 
of .spring in the air. 

“You!” he ejaculated again, drew a little nearer; 
and — too radiantly bewildered for any embarrass- 
ment — frankly stared. 

The soft mouth closed with some severity, but 
the corners twitched: and for a moment there was 
silence. 

Then their eyes met, and she gave a half-embar- ■ 
rassed laugh ; turned her head restlessly beneath his 
gaze and crimsoned. 

“ I am so sorry: did you think I was a burglar? I 
owe you every sort of apology, Mr. — you are Mr. 
Simpson, are you not?. — but I thought I would like to 
come and look out some books I particularly wanted.” 

401 


SIMPSON 


“Take what you like, take them all,” said Simp- 
son, effusively. 

“But I don’t want them all.” 

“I’m afraid they ’re not up to much.” With a des- 
perate effort to behave naturally — the sort of effort 
a drunken man may make to appear sober, painfully 
conscious of the artificial calm, the studied correct- 
ness of movement and speech — Simpson advanced 
towards the books on the floor, and gazed down at 
them with an air of depreciation. “Do take them. 
I half promised my landlady that she should have 
what she liked from this special room — but I expect 
that some arrangement can be made, she seems to 
be a very obliging sort of person. Let me gather them 
together for you.” 

“Please don’t trouble.” 

“It’s no trouble at all. I — ” he began, and was 
stooping when he saw that the front of her soft black 
gown was grey with dust. “Oh, I say! — look at 
the front of your frock. And they were supposed to 
have spring cleaned the whole place only a month 
ago. Do let me — ” and drawing his handkerchief 
from his pocket he was advancing to flick away the 
dust, when she repulsed him with an impatient ges- 
ture. 

“What ’s the good of pretending?” 

“I like pretending,” Simpson spoke almost dog- 
gedly: “pretending you’re really here, in my own 
house: though of course I know that the whole 
thing’s a fantastic dream.” 

402 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


“ It is n’t your house — yet.” 

The stranger spoke with an extraordinary air of 
pride, her head high ; though he fancied that her lips 
trembled, and this time not with laughter: cursed his 
own stupidity, and plunging deeper, attempted a joke. 

“Anyhow, it’s as much my house as yours.” 

“ It’s not — it’s not!” 

“ Now you ’re angry because I said that about the 
books being promised to my landlady. But don’t 
think of that — you must n’t think of it. Take any- 
thing you like.” Simpson’s candid eyes were full of 
anxiety, though it was evident, from the look she 
gave him, that the intruder suspected some hidden 
sarcasm. 

“You are extraordinarily generous!” 

“ It is not generosity where you are concerned.” 

If she doubted his simple-mindedness as he made 
this assertion she must have attributed to Simpson 
the genius of a great actor. “As for the books, 
you must take what you like. I ’ll settle with Mrs. 
Reannie.” 

“You seem to think her extraordinarily complai- 
sant.” 

“Landladies generally are, where money is con- 
cerned.” 

A sudden colour flamed up into the stranger’s 
face. “ Oh ! this is too much ! ’ ’ she exclaimed ; stooped 
towards a chair, picked up a scarf, flung it over her 
shoulders, — with all the air of a martial cloak, — 
and moved towards the door. 

403 


SIMPSON 


“What have I said now?” Simpson, who was on 
his knees piling the books into symmetrical heaps, 
scrambled to his feet. 

For a moment she swung round and faced him. 

“What have you said now? Do you mean to tell 
me that you can pretend you don’t know who I am? ” 
she demanded angrily. “Taking advantage of that 
pretence to — to — ” 

“But I don’t know.” 

With one hand still on the handle of the door she 
looked him up and down: then asked with an air 
of exaggerated coldness, “Might I enquire why you 
said 'You,’ like that, when you first saw me?” 

“ Because — well, it was — it is — you,” stam- 
mered Simpson. 

“All this is extraordinarily subtle: too subtle for 
me. Since you persist in maintaining this farce, I ’d 
better introduce myself — I am Mrs. Reannie.” 

“That I swear you’re not.” 

“Oh!” The exclamation was like a rocket shot 
up by the flaming indignation which crimsoned her 
face from chin to brow. 

“ But you — you — ” 

“You seem to have an extraordinary partiality 
for that pronoun, Mr. Simpson.” She had regained 
her composure and spoke with dangerous polite- 
ness. “Will you send for Mrs. Bliss to identify me 
or would you prefer the police.” 

“ You — know — I — I — ” 

“I’m afraid that I don’t know. I suppose I’m 
404 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


extraordinarily dense, but I quite fail to see why you 
should doubt my word. At any rate, I will get Mr. 
Gaunt to come himself for the books in the morning; 
perhaps you ’ll be good enough to have them ready 
for him. Good-evening.” 

“Look here, don’t go ; you must n’t go.” Simpson 
darted forward and caught at the edge of the door. 
“Of course, you thought me a perfect ass. But I 
swear I had no idea — never thought of it. You 
know one does get preconceived ideas about people, 
and I got an idea about Mrs. Reannie — at least 
about you — about her — that she was quite old, 
rather a stupendous sort of person. I dare say you 
had some kind of preconceived idea about me, if the 
truth were told.” 

“I’m afraid I never gave it a thought.” The angle 
of the firm chin was worthy of all the Reannies, 
despite the assertion being a lie; but it fulfilled its 
purpose. 

“Of course; why should I have imagined — ” 
Simpson spoke with an air of such complete dejec- 
tion that — having gained her point — she softened. 

“ But I think I do understand, Mr. Simpson. You 
imagined that Mrs. Reannie was one person, and I 
was another — ?” 

“Yes.” 

“A simple burglar, perhaps — one of your chance 
acquaintances? ” There was malice in the words, but 
there was also humour, and the atmosphere light- 
ened. 


405 


SIMPSON 


“I should like to tell you what I thought,” ven- 
tured Simpson. 

“I’m afraid I must go. And about that pic- 
ture — ? ” 

“ I might have guessed. Of course, that is what it 
always reminded me of!” 

“I hope it doesn’t leave a very ugly blank?” 
went on Mrs. Reannie, smoothly, disregarding this 
cryptic utterance. 

“Won’t you come and see? Perhaps you might 
suggest something — some rearrangement.” 

“It really is getting late: but perhaps, as I took it 
away — ” 

“It would be very kind of you,” said Simpson, 
who had recovered a little of his usual stolidity. 
Then he pushed open the door and stood aside to let 
her pass into the drawing-room, where she put out a 
sure hand towards the electric light. “ You don’t use 
this room?” 

“No, I don’t — ” he hesitated. 

“You needn’t mind saying you don’t like it. 
Nobody does, excepting Mrs. Bliss, and she adores it. 
But somehow it was never altered, left as my mother 
had it at her marriage,” Mrs. Reannie remarked, 
in a more friendly tone ; then added with an air of 
making generous reparation, “Perhaps you will do 
something — now that the place really is yours.” 

“I don’t think I shall alter anything — not yet, 
at any rate,” said Simpson, and pushed open the 
door of the dining-room. 

406 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


But for a moment she hung back. 

'‘I forgot, you have friends to-night; Mrs. Bliss 
was preparing.” 

“No, I dined alone. Please go in, Mrs. Reannie,” 
he said, and she moved forward; but once inside the 
door, paused, with an exclamation of dismay. 

“Oh, what a blank! It puts them all out of focus, 
breaks the continuity. I had thought that, as a 
mere picture, it was the least telling, the least im- 
pressive — but how one misses it. And there ’s my 
father” — she made a gesture in the direction of the 
young ensign — “hanging next to that empty space : 
now, after all these years! Oh, how could I? how 
could I ? It must come back : that ’s all there is for it. 
I must send it back early to-morrow.” 

“But why? Take the other too, the one of your 
father if you feel that they ought n’t to have been 
separated. As for the others they must get used to 
being lonely: like the rest of us,” he added rather 
grimly. 

“No, no, it belongs here.” 

“As you do.” 

“We needn’t discuss that, need we?” Her voice 
was icy with civility. 

“Of course, you hate me: hate the very thought 
and sight of me.” Simpson’s words betrayed such 
utter dejection that no woman could have remained 
untouched, either by vanity or pity. 

“ You are wrong there,” she said gently. “ I should 
hate you, unreasonable as it would be, if you ’d just 
407 


SIMPSON 


taken the place and treated it like any dog of a 
place. But you — you love it nearly as much as I 
do: have done far more for it than I could ever 
afford to do,” she went on generously. “ Every inch 
of the place shows the money spent on it. And not 
only money,” she added, as she saw Simpson wince, 
“but taste and thought and care. I think that 
should make us friends — at least make for friend- 
ship, not for hatred. And now you must let me send 
that picture back to-morrow, please.” Her voice 
was almost appealing. 

“You really mean it? You would rather?” 

“Yes — somehow I think it would be right. That 
one owes something to them. You see they have 
always been here.” 

“ It was deducted from the inventory,” blurted out 
Simpson, and could have bitten his tongue off for the 
betrayal of his innately businesslike mind. 

“You can arrange all that with Messrs. Mac- 
Cracken,” answered Mrs. Reannie, and was moving 
towards the door, when an expedient for keeping her 
longer flashed through his mind. 

“You must let me send you back.” 

“ Oh, but it is only a step ; I ’m staying at the Rec- 
tory.” 

“At the Cartwrights’ ! And they never told me! 
What treachery.” 

“What should they tell you? You did n’t seem 
devoured by curiosity about your landlady,” she 
answered with delicate malice. 

408 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


“Well, there’s one thing certain” — Simpson 
moved across the room and rang the bell. “You 
must have some coffee.” 

“But why?” 

“Do you imagine I ’ve never heard of the Rectory 
high tea — at six- thirty, too? Coffee, please, Jervis.” 

“Good-evening, Jervis.” 

“Good-evening, mum.” 

“You see, he knows me,” remarked Mrs. Reannie 
coolly, as the man left the room. “ Perhaps you ’d like 
to send for Mrs. Bliss to testify also; though I assure 
you I know exactly how many tablespoonsful of 
coffee she’ll be putting in the pot at this very mo- 
ment.” 

“Oh, everybody knows! — about you, I mean. 
Always did know, I suppose — excepting me. Even 
Julie.” 

“Julie is a very dear friend of mine. She possesses 
a rare talent for saying a great deal and never telling 
anything she does n’t want to.” Simpson’s guest 
moved towards the open window and stood gazing 
out. “Something smells lovely — is it — is it — ? ” 

“Yes, it’s the petunias in the triangular bed — a 
little tempered by the long strip of mignonette be- 
neath the window, and the nicotine close against 
the wall. Lean forward a little and you ’ll get it all ; 
with a whiff from the lime right away at the end of 
the lawn.” 

“ But that’s the way we always had it.” 

“Yes, I know; Bliss told me.” 

409 


SIMPSON 


For a moment or two she stood staring out into the 
velvety blackness, while Simpson watched her in 
silence. Her frock was cut round at the neck, the 
line broken by a single string of pearls, her throat 
bare. Yes, he had been right: silhouetted thus 
against the dark mass of trees, the shape of her head, 
the whole profile was an exact reproduction of the 
portrait to which he had first likened her: though 
there was far more in the living face : a depth : a mel- 
ancholy, more for the past than the present. And 
yet nothing quiescent or resigned : the curve of the 
lips, the tilt of the chin, all spoke of an ardent spirit, 
still aflame for life, and keenly alert for humour. 

Presently she moved to the table where Jervis had 
placed the coffee, and poured out two cups: “Sugar 

— one lump or two?” She helped Simpson with a 
curiously homelike air: then sitting sideways, one 
arm on the table, her wrist raised, idly stirring her 
coffee, began to talk with an effect of gentle leisure, 

— for it seemed as if the long silence had allayed her 
feeling of nervous strangeness : drawn them together 
better than any words could have done, — discussing 
the garden, and the house, and the village people, 
laughing over their odd ways: showing amid her 
mirth a wistful sympathy with their needs : a deep- 
seated pain at the knowledge of her own helplessness : 
then, reverting to lighter topics, plumbing Simpson’s 
depth of countryside knowledge. 

Suddenly she glanced at the clock on the mantel- 
piece and gave a little exclamation of surprise, 
410 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


“Eleven! What will the Rectory people say? 
They’ll think I’m lost.” She rose and twisted her 
scarf round her neck. “Good-bye, Mr. Simpson; I 
must thank you for your hospitality.” 

“ I should thank you for that,” answered Simpson, 
with his old-fashioned little bow. “ If you are really 
in a hurry we will go out at the terrace door, and then 
through the walled garden and up the park: that is, 
if you’re not afraid of the damp.” 

She put out her foot and turned it on one side to 
show the sole. “ I have thick shoes: fortunately one 
does not dress for the Rectory evening meal. But 
don’t you come; I think I remember the way.” And 
she laughed. 

“Of course, I shall come; that is, if you have no 
objection,” answered Simpson; pushed open the 
door and followed her through the narrow hall, into 
the porch, where she paused. 

“It’s a nice place: I remember I used to have 
breakfast here.” 

“I have breakfast here, too.” Simpson spoke 
slowly, with evident meaning. “It’s glorious on 
sunny mornings; with the dew still on the flowers.” 

“Ye — s.” There was a lamp hanging from one of 
the beams, and suddenly their eyes met beneath it : 
free of all antagonism, full of a curious understand- 
ing. 

“Why not — ?” he asked. 

“We’ve never even been introduced to each 
other,” protested Mrs. Reannie. 

41 1 


SIMPSON 


“Oh, but we have.” 

“ I introduced myself ; that does n’t count : nobody 
introduced you. I ’ve been sitting in your dining- 
room, drinking coffee with you till eleven o’clock 
at night. And now, actually, to cap it all, I believe 
you contemplate asking me to breakfast.” Her lips 
quivered, an unexpected dimple showed in one 
cheek. 

“Will you come? ” asked Simpson, with the sudden 
audacious bravery of a shy man. 

“What would Mrs. Cartwright say?” 

“Hang Mrs. Cartwright. Do, do. There may 
never be another day.” 

“There will be plenty of days: close on two hun- 
dred in this year alone.” 

“ I can scarcely believe there will ever be another 
— at least, not like this. Then there ’s the picture, 
you must see it hung.” 

“It won’t be here.” 

“Oh, yes, it will, if I send to the Rectory for it.” 

“I would like to see how it looks!” Her voice 
sounded so like capitulation that Simpson broke in, 
with perhaps a trifle too much insistence. 

“You must see it by a good light!” 

“There are some sixteen hours of good light in a 
June day; no need to rise with the dawn.” 

Mrs. Reannie’s voice showed such decision, while 
she branched off to other subjects with such pal- 
pable deliberation that Simpson did not dare to pro- 
test. And thus he was all the more amazed — know- 
412 


HE MEETS HIS FORMER LANDLADY 


ing very little of women — when, having wished 
him good-bye at the Rectory Gate, and actually 
turned to go up the path, she reverted to the sub- 
ject: over her shoulder like any one of the villagers, 
picking it up with an air as though it had never been 
dropped. 

“Then if you really can send for the picture, and 
it ’s nice and fine — it does seem a pity to lose any 
of the daylight — I ’ll come and beg you for another 
cup of Mrs. Bliss’s coffee. About nine, — eh, — 
will that do? — Good-night, Mr. Simpson.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


SIMPSON BOOKS A MOST IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 

Simpson was generally an easy master. “Too easy,” 
said Banks, whose idea of household management 
was to impel forward the domestic machinery by a 
constant series of explosions, as though it were a 
species of motor engine. But that night, late as it 
was, he insisted on interviewing Mrs. Bliss, who 
appeared with her decorous black gown somewhat 
gapingly arranged over a garish pink flannelette 
nightgown : one forgotten curling-pin dangling at the 
nape of her neck, a large metal affair which Simpson 
imagined might be some species of mousetrap. 

But for all that, her dignity never faltered: was, 
indeed, stiffened by something very near to temper, 
till she heard the name of the expected guest; when 
she was ready with a menu sufficient to feed twenty 
women: even bustled off to the dairy herself to set 
more milk for cream: promising to see that Bliss 
gathered all the early strawberries, the first thing 
next morning, along with the freshest roses, to ar- 
range that a man should be sent precisely at eight- 
thirty — Simpson cunningly arranged this as a spe- 
cies of reminder — to the Rectory for the picture, 
while Clarke rode into Market Charlford to see if 
any fresh fish were procurable. 

414 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 

Simpson was too single-minded to feel the least 
shame over his ardour of preparation. Nothing mat- 
tered excepting the woman for whom it was being 
made. The only thing which he could not make sure 
of was the weather, and the next day saw him up at 
five o’clock surveying the misty morning with some 
doubt. 

Out in the garden, even as late as seven- thirty, 
Bliss was of the opinion that “it might rain, though 
again it might n’t.” 

But in another hour all his fears were at rest, for 
the last layer of mist floated away from the tops of 
the trees; the sun blazed out, and the table was set 
in the porch with silver and fruit, cream and pre- 
serves; awaiting only the final touch of hot viands, 
the fish, the freshly baked rolls, the eggs and 
coffee, — when Simpson grew dissatisfied with the 
bowl of roses which decorated the centre — crimson 
when he had a fancy for yellow — and went off and 
cut more; started to arrange them on the table, and 
upset the water over the cloth, which Jervis changed 
in stony silence; while his master squatted on the 
step, adding rose after rose to the already tightly 
jammed bouquet, without any apparent improve- 
ment: his whole being intent on listening for the front 
doorbell, his fingers impervious to thorns: so busily 
engaged that he failed to hear the rustle of a muslin 
dress between the box borders of the Italian garden; 
and jumped, as though discovered in the committal 
of some crime, when a cool voice remarked : — 

4i5 


SIMPSON 


“ It ’s as cruelly overcrowded as a Russian prison ” r 
and turned to find that Mrs. Reannie was stand- 
ing close behind him; all in white, without a hat, 
and with a parasol — the exact shade of the well- 
remembered blue cloak — tilted over one shoulder. 

“Please leave them alone; it’s absolute barbar- 
ity !” She closed the parasol, dropped to her knees 
at Simpson’s side, and drew off her gloves. 

. “ My hands don’t seem made for this sort of thing,” 
he answered dolefully, eyeing her long, cool, white 
fingers ; both oblivious of the fact that they had not 
even wished each other good-morning. 

“I think — on the whole — I’m glad they’re 
not,” answered Mrs. Reannie, drawing out the roses 
one by one and laying them on the stones at the side 
of the bowl: “though perhaps there’s no necessity 
for them to be quite so gory : they look as though 
you had literally fought your way through a wall of 
thorns instead of trying to arrange a medium-sized 
vase full. Suppose you go and wash them, while I 
finish these.” 

When Simpson returned, the roses were in the 
middle of the table; each blossom standing distinct 
and perkily upright, in a fashion that he had pic- 
tured but totally failed to achieve. 

“It’s really quite simple — only it’s not men’s 
work, you see,” explained his guest airily: at once 
putting him in his place and augmenting his wonder ; 
while it was not till months later, when he found her 
propping flowers up with little stones, that he gauged 
416 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 

the pretentious cunning of even the best of women : 
forcing from her the admission that she had sent 
Jervis flying off to the nearest border. 

She had thrust the surplus flowers into her belt, 
and was sitting calmly at the table as Simpson 
emerged from the house, followed by the man with a 
steaming tray-load. 

“Shall I stay here — is this right?” 

“Of course, and will you pour out? I took you at 
your word as you said you liked Mrs. Bliss’s coffee. 
But we can have tea in a moment if you like; she 
generally sends it up when we have visitors.” 

“Oh, but she knows I always take coffee,” re- 
sponded Mrs. Reannie placidly, handing him his 
cup ; while he mentally blessed the housekeeper as a 
bond of union. 

The picture had arrived, and after breakfast they 
went into the dining-room and saw it hung : — “Now 
I hope you ’ll be happy,” said Mrs. Reannie address- 
ing the whiskered ensign, with the faintest hint of 
reproach in her voice. After this they strolled about 
the Italian garden, in and out of the beds: through 
the stables ; down to the kitchen garden to see if there 
were any more strawberries : and up and down every 
path, along every border of the walled garden, while 
Mrs. Reannie sought out her well-remembered fa- 
vourites : all with a complete disregard of time. 

It is true that once or twice she exclaimed: “I 
must get back; what will Mr. Cartwright say?” 

But excepting for a rather joyous feeling of youth- 
417 


SIMPSON 


fully doing what they ought not to do, this specula- 
tion did not seem to affect either of them in the very 
least. 

There is, perhaps, one such day in every one’s 
life. It is seldom more — when the- whole world 
seems to hang in a nebulous light; when nothing is 
quite real, or quite certain ; when the entire universe 
might be a bubble to break with touching ; when one 
is beyond one’s body, all pure soul ; when everything 
— even the birds in their bursts of song and sudden 
silences, the flowers, the clouds — conspires for per- 
fection. Such moments come only when one human 
spirit first touches another: and vanish, or at least 
are transmuted, with the first kiss, the first spoken 
word, of love. 

“ This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 

Stooped over in doubt, as settling its claims; 

Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 

The soft meandering Spanish name ” — 

quoted Simpson, as they lingered over the long border 
of iris beneath the east wall. 

“That’s Browning’s ‘Garden Fancies,’ isn’t it? 
What a curious mixture you are — they used to 
grow irises for the sake of the roots; even in my 
grandmother’s time they never thought of buying 
such a thing as orris root for the potpourri — some- 
how one does n’t expect business men to study 
Browning.” 

“That’s because you have a preconceived notion 
of business men, chiefly founded on Dickens, I ex- 
418 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


pect, if the truth were known. As for stock-brokers, 
Gaunt has told me of your mortal antipathy — 
Look at that cloth-of-gold, isn’t it splendidly ex- 
travagant? ” 

“Mr. Gaunt must have judged me by himself. He 
regards the City, and all connected with it, as one 
great, conglomerate, ravening wolf. — The lavender 
is getting too leggy, you ’ll want to strike some fresh 
cuttings.” 

What did they talk of? Their conversation was 
extraordinarily detached — half the sentences find- 
ing no end — irrelevant and intimate. He told her 
that she ought to have been christened Beatrice, 
and she replied — without asking “Why?” — : that 
she actually had been: Margaret Beatrice Stella, 
which accounted for the M. B. S. of her signature, 
but that she was always called Stella: while as for 
him, he told her how old he was, and the date of his 
birthday ; and what Parrifleet had said — to which 
she replied that she had met Parrifleet and loved 
him — and about his mother, and the first trout he 
ever caught : all the sort of things that a man inevit- 
ably does tell to the one woman: while the sunny 
hours rolled by, so completely unrelated to time 
that they might have represented a moment or an 
eternity. 

At last, a little tired, she stopped by the seat be- 
neath the chestnut tree. “ Five minutes’ rest, then I 
really must go,” she declared with the decision of a 
person who feels some secret doubt. 

419 


SIMPSON 


“You’ve only just come,” complained Simpson 
dolefully; “and there are heaps of things I want to 
discuss — business matters, for instance. Then, if 
I ’ve really got the place, if it ’s really mine, I may 
live here alone for forty years : another hour or two 
won’t hurt you; you’d spend that talking to any 
poor old man in the village.” 

“You’re not very old — ” 

“You ought to know; I’ve told you.” 

“And not in the least to be pitied,” she went on, 
disregarding the interruption. “As for being lonely, 
that’s your own fault.” 

“I like that! When all the fellows have deserted 
me, — my own fault, indeed!” 

“They were quite right: the idea of founding a So- 
ciety, a Club — anything — on a negative! It seems 
to me” — she spoke with emphatic softness, their 
desultory talk suddenly crystallising to something 
more definite — “that not doing what one doesn’t 
want to do could be managed without an institution 
of any sort. To bind yourselves together to do some- 
thing — that ’s a different thing altogether. To climb 
and climb: to heed no fall, acknowledge no defeat: 
that seems to me worth doing, filling one’s veins with 
the wine of life. But the skim milk of negation: 
pheugh!” she gave a little gesture of gallant scorn. 
“Determining not to do: I would n’t give that for 
it” — and she snapped her fingers. “To really want 
anything, to wear out one’s life in the endeavour 
for it — however vain: that’s worth while.” 

420 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


“But suppose a man knows that what he wants 
is quite beyond his reach. It will make life pretty 
hard if he lays everything on it, and then finds that 
it’s been all in vain.” 

“ I was wrong to use that word. I don’t believe it 
ever is in vain, unless the will or the desire ceases. 
Oh! believe me, I was wrong to say that.” In her 
eagerness she put out one hand and lightly touched 
him on the breast. “You now, for instance — you 
and those other men — what did you come to 
Fountains for? — Not to do anything which you felt 
must be done: not to accomplish any work, here in 
this quiet place, where your thoughts might be all 
your own : not to perfect any discovery, or invention, 
however small. But just not to do. What does it 
amount to — when all ’s said and done — merely 
a running-away from life.” 

“ Perhaps in the beginning. But afterwards — the 
others — ” 

“They didn’t run fast enough — ” she gave a 
little laugh of scorn. “They were like Lot’s wife 
looking back. Poor things; even their negations 
were invertebrate. And now you — ” 

“I’m left alone: the symbol of a failure, you 
mean?” 

“Well — ” 

“You’re right in one way. It is evident enough 
that I am left. But in another way you’re wrong. 
For I am more completely left by the negative be- 
coming a positive than by anything else.” 

421 


SIMPSON 


“ How do you mean? ” Mrs. Reannie was digging 
holes in the ground with the point of her parasol, 
then painstakingly smoothing them over again. 

“Well, I began by not wanting to marry any wo- 
man — the day I decided to take the place. And 
ended, that same day, by determining to marry one 
particular woman, or no other.” 

“And yet you’re still alone.” There was a hint 
of mockery in her voice. 

“That is scarcely my fault. My star rose, and 
then vanished for three whole years, though I’ve 
swept the heavens for it ever since : never forgotten, 
never quite despaired : planted all those blue things 
along the border there because of a cloak she was 
wearing that one night.” 

“And you ’ve never seen her since? ” Stella’s voice 
was very gentle — a mere breath. 

“Yes — quite lately — twice.” 

“Does she know?” 

“It’s scarcely likely, unless she’s gifted with 
second-sight.” 

“Why have n’t you told her?” 

“How can one tell a woman a thing like that, 
when one has only seen her three times?” 

“There now! what did I say! Fear comes in — 
of course, you’ll lose her.” Mrs. Reannie’s tone 
showed exasperation and foreboding. “Or perhaps 
you don’t think it worth troubling about, after all. 
I wonder how the things of this world are ever done 
by men ; it was they who invented the word ‘ resigna- 
422 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


tion,’ which with them means howling for the moon 
and making no effort to reach it.” 

“What could I do?” Simpson asked the question 
meekly enough; while that exhilarated feeling that 
possesses a small boy when he sees a bird actually 
hopping towards a limed twig possessed him. The 
whole thing was so fantastic, delightful : though at 
the same time rather terrifying. 

“What could I do?” he repeated: “tell me that.” 

“What could you do? Oh, if I was a man and 
loved a woman,” — she had swung to her feet and 
stood facing him, her eyes aglow — “I wouldn’t 
care what she thought or felt. I ’d make her think 
and feel as I wanted her to — try my will against 
hers; take her, and hold her. Yet you go placidly 
on as if life was an endless succession of years, and 
another three or so did n’t count.” 

“Supposing” — Simpson had risen, too, and was 
standing before her, rather stolidly, his hands deep in 
his pockets, to keep them from the danger of taking 
her at her word : his feet wide apart, to make quite 
sure that he was standing upon the ground, not 
merely floating in space — “supposing that I — ” 

“Supposing — supposing,” sh^ mocked: looked 
up in the tree, frowned at the sun which came dap- 
pling through the leaves, and opened her parasol 
with a great air of decision. “Supposing I go home; 
by the look of things it must be nearly lunch-time.” 

Simpson drew one hand from his pocket and 
touched her wrist, almost with an air of command. 

423 


SIMPSON 


“Shut that thing up and sit down for a minute. 
Now we’ve started this, you must see me through 
— tell me what I am to do.” 

“You really care for her?” 

“Yes — I really care.” Simpson smiled, care 
seemed such an inadequate word. 

“Now, how like a man that is! You know you 
care, but you never stop to think that she may care 
just as much. Ah ! ” — and she gave a little gesture 
of impatience: — “you men! If you are cads, you 
think every woman cares. If you are nice, you think 
that the only woman cannot possibly care. Perhaps 
she has thought of you — all this time in the same 
way that you’ve thought of her.” 

“My dear lady, she does n’t even know me.” 

“Well, now you have found out where she is, make 
it your business to see that she does know you. Have 
done with negatives once and for all. Take up all the 
light between her and the rest of the world. Tell her 
you intend to marry her, whether she likes it or not. 
That’s what I would do if I was a man.” Stella gave 
a spirited toss of her head, a swinging buccaneering 
movement of the shoulders oddly at variance with 
the soft femininity of her appearance: a movement 
that would have reminded Parrifleet of her assertion 
that she had been a sailor in some preexistence. “ I 
believe that ’s why women thought so much of men in 
theolddays. They did n’t ask: they took for granted.” 

“Do you really mean that?” 

“Of course, I mean it.” 

424 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 

“ Then, Mrs. Reannie, I have the honour to in- 
form you ’ ’ — Simpson took out his notebook and 
fluttered over the pages: with an effort at calmness 
which resulted in an air of such businesslike stolidity 
that he might have been arranging some deal, the out- 
come of which did not matter much one way or the 
other — “that three months from this date — the 
nth of June, that will be the nth of September — 
I intend to marry you in Little Ilkley Church at 
twelve precisely. I do think morning weddings are 
really so much nicer, don’t you? ” he added blandly: 
“and it will be very quiet, please, probably only you 
and I, and the parson.” 

Stella flushed crimson : treated him to a hard stare : 
hesitated a moment, biting her lip ; finally clapped her 
hands and laughed: — “Well done! — Well done!” 

“And — if there’s no particular reason against 
it — ” he went on, ignoring her interruption, “I’d 
like you to wear blue : you can choose the material for 
yourself. And, by the bye, I might as well tell you 
that my Christian name’s George.” 

He had spoken in detached sentences, apparently 
engrossed by the entry he was making in his book. 
But now he shut it, replaced the pencil, carefully 
adjusted the elastic band — placed it in his pocket: 
looked up at Stella smiling, though his face was 
noticeably white, and repeated: — “George.” 

“As if it mattered to me.” Mrs. Reannie’s head 
was still high, but her lips trembled — between 
laughter and something else. 

425 


SIMPSON 


“I don’t suppose it does, any old name will do,” 
he responded airily: “only I must tell you I object 
to Georgie. Well, that’s settled, eh? September the 
nth, I won’t let you forget. And now for lunch, 
our lunch, in our house.” 

“I’m not— I—” 

“ But you are — what did you tell me about being 
half-hearted, about doubting?” 

Stella turned and faced him fairly, white to the 
lips as he was; while in both there was that look 
which one sees in the eyes of men who are fencing: 
wary, intensely watchful, rather hard and anxious. 
For there is an odd moment in all courtship, however 
happy, when the sex antagonism, the fighting in- 
stinct is roused. But she laughed bravely, though on 
a higher note than usual. 

“Well done, well done, indeed! I was fairly 
caught: give in: cry a truce. But now I must go. 
The Rectory high feast is at one as you know. 
Good-bye, Mr. Simpson.” She tilted the blue para- 
sol forward over her head and held out one hand. 
“For a beginning it was really excellent: — accept 
my congratulations. If you are as good in the real 
as in the counterfeit, you may win. Now good-bye, 
and good-luck.” 

Simpson caught the proffered hand and held it. 
“Not so fast — you taught me my lesson; I’m an 
apt pupil and I’ll not give in so easily,” he said, 
hearing his own voice rather higher pitched than 
usual, blatantly confident; listening to* it as though 
426 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


it belonged to some one else, and he, George Simp- 
son was standing on one side, waiting while this 
other self rushed to its ruin. 

“This is going too far. I acknowledge that I had 
no business to dictate. But I was half in fun, talking 
at random. You had a right to retaliate, laugh at 
me. But now — let me go. You have had your re- 
venge — you — ’ ’ 

She hesitated, her eyes filled with tears, at the 
sight of which Simpson suddenly toppled from the 
high wave of exhilaration, onto which his excitement 
had swept him. 

“ My dear, my dear,” — he dropped her hand, and 
drew back a little. “Look here, I know you must 
think me a cad, an unutterable cad! But I’m not 
such a cad, such a fool as that: to laugh at you — 
you ! When I ’m not fit to as much as kiss the hem 
of that white gown of yours ! What an ass I ’ ve 
been. But somehow it all went to my head. Last 
night, and this wonderful morning — and June — 
all coming together when everything seemed to 
be at an end. The very fact of finding you here — 
here of all places — after hunting England for 
you!” 

“For me — ?” 

“Well, who else? Good God ! to think of the times 
I ’ve been to that fool theatre — imagining that as 
you ’d been there once you might go again. And now 
to have spoilt it all.” Suddenly he was in the depth 
of despair, convinced that he must have been in- 
427 


SIMPSON 


sane to have ever hoped : oppressed by a horrible 
mental caricature of himself. 

Mrs. Reannie’s parasol was lowered to an angle 
which completely hid her face. In his normal state 
Simpson might have gathered some encouragement 
from the fact that she had sat down again ; but to his 
distorted fancy it gave her, the aspect of a judge; 
though, as a matter of fact, it neither meant acquies- 
cence nor condemnation ; was merely the outcome of 
the undignified fact that she trembled so she could 
no longer stand. 

“ Perhaps if you only knew — realised — ” he went 
on disconsolately, for there is no encouragement to 
be gathered from a tightly stretched surface of corn- 
flower-blue silk — “how I have thought of you, you 
would understand why I made such an ass of myself : 
would say: ‘Poor devil, he’s only an unfortunate 
bounder of a City man, he did n’t know any better’ : 
even Gaunt would understand that,” he added 
bitterly. 

The parasol was lowered and closed. Mrs. Reannie 
rose with a definite air. “ I don’t think you need say 
those sort of things about yourself. I don’t feel ” — 
she spoke with enigmatical softness — “that there 
is any special need to make excuses for you. I quite 
understand — it has all been a mistake — ” 

“In the manner, not in the matter,” interjected 
Simpson. “If I’d only had patience, waited a little. 
But you know there was something — a feeling of 
ridiculous youth in the air.” 

428 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


“It’s always like that at Fountains in the spring 
and early summer. Later it settles down with a sort 
of sigh; but up to the end of June it seems all alive 
with quiet promise, just waiting.” Mrs. Reannie’s 
voice was meditative: she seemed to have half for- 
gotten both Simpson and his sins. 

“ You feel that, too? I wonder if it’s in us, or in 
the place.” 

“I think it’s the place. There’s nowhere in the 
world like it, and I seem to have been almost every- 
where since I left. I was in Cashmir half the winter, 
almost hating its loveliness.” 

With the odd freemasonry which had affected 
them both from the beginning, they suddenly drifted 
away from all the storm and stress of the last twenty 
minutes ; the thought of each following the desultory 
wanderings of the other in a fashion that is signifi- 
cant of love. 

“I was travelling with a friend who paid all the 
expenses,” she went on. “That was horrid to begin 
with ; it used to make me hot all over when she hag- 
gled about the hotel bills. I was n’t happy ; and when 
our little world goes wrong, beauty only makes it 
all the harder to bear. We were away nearly eight 
months altogether.” 

“No wonder I could n’t find you.” 

“But I’ve been home more than a year. Last 
June I was here, when you had your last dinner; I 
saw one of your members in the church — Mr. Gale 
I think it was Julie said.” 

429 


SIMPSON 


“And she knew you all the time ! Think of a whole 
year wasted! And now what am I to do here? It’s 
yours — more, part of you. Nothing can ever buy it. 
I guessed that there was something lacking before: 
now I know what it is; it’ll be unendurable. That’s 
why it always seemed to stand a little aloof for all 
its friendliness. It knows I don’t belong here; every 
tree in the park knows it. I ’m all out of it: they’d 
draw aside their leaves when I pass them — if they 
only could. It ’s a snob of a place! No — no, it is n’t, 
only cruelly faithful. And now what am I to do?’’ 

He looked at her smiling ; though his blue eyes held 
the wistful blankness of a child, who is suddenly 
overcome by the fear that his longed-for prize packet 
may prove empty. “Of course, you never could — 
a nobody from off the Stock Exchange: forty-five: 
bald: fat — though, thank God, not so fat as he was. 
And you and Fountains! It’s too utterly incongru- 
ous.” And he laughed rather drearily. 

“Do you remember what I told you?” 

“What?” 

“ To take things, somethings, for granted.” She had 
been moving slowly across the lawn in the direction of 
the walled garden as Simpson spoke, following like a 
whipped cur at her heels. Now she reached the door 
and stood with her back turned, fumbling at the latch. 

“Well, it seems to me that you’re taking it for 
granted — all one way.” Her voice was unnaturally 
detached, as though the whole affair was one of ab- 
solutely no moment. 


430 


HE BOOKS AN IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT 


Then as the door opened, leaving her backed by the 
straight turfed path, the borders of flowers, the ridicu- 
lous fountains, — that they had set going only an 
hour earlier, — she turned and spoke quickly, rather 
breathlessly, as if with a great effort of bravery. 

“ It ’s just as I said. You know what you feel ; you 
don’t think what I feel. Do you really imagine that 
I did n’t see you that night; that I did n’t know? Do 
you think that any one person can look at, feel for 
another as you looked at, felt for me, without its 
being mutual? There would n’t be a spark. If there 
were, it would fizzle out in a moment. It lived be- 
cause we both knew — you did n’t know I was your 
landlady, I didn’t know you were my tenant: we 
were hampered by none of the silly explanations with 
which the world labels us — we knew more than 
that, things that there is no explaining. I believe it 
must be as Mr. Parrifleet says, the repetition of what 
has happened over and over again. To come like 
that — to know — without any reason — to know 
at once, as we knew.” 

“You knew?” 

“Of course I knew! Do you remember, just before 
you left the box you turned? I knew you would 
turn — I waited on purpose. . . . There now, you 
know the worst.” 

“You mean — ?” It seemed to Simpson as if the 
whole world swam round him while he stood stolidly 
in the midst of it, amazed out of all articulation. 

Mrs. Reannie gave a shrug, though her eyes were 
43i 


SIMPSON 


soft, her lips trembling between tears and laughter. 
“But they say you made a fortune on the Stock 
Exchange! It must have been easy, any one could 
do it.” 

“Why— Stella!” 

“Because you’re the densest person I ever met 
— because — oh, good-bye.” 

She turned, was half through the door: would 
have slammed it in his face, had he not suddenly for- 
gotten his disabilities : felt only that he was a man : 
remembered that she was the one woman in the 
world, and caught her in his arms. 

A few minutes later, as they sat on the stone coping 
at the edge of the pond, utterly regardless of the 
Rectory dinner hour, a thought occurred to him. 

“If you knew — all the time, that it was ‘you,’ 
why did you pretend?” 

She drew back and looked at him meaningly, 
without a word, her eyes dancing with mischief. 

“A great lady like you,” remarked Simpson dis- 
approvingly. 

“Oh, my dear, that’s just it. Great ladies get 
tired of being great ladies. They like — just for a 
change, and the greater ladies they are the better 
they like it — to be mere minxes for a while : a quaint 
fact, but one which accounts for much which is other- 
wise inexplicable.” 


THE END 































































<3Tbe tiitierpiDe 

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